


Hates Children and Animals

by pettiot



Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Exile, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Sex at work, Sexuality, Slash, Slow Burn, Veterinarian AU, class themes, deliberate misunderstandings, requited sexual tension, slash tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Anders is a vet without a valid visa, Garrett has someone else's cat.
Relationships: Anders/m!Hawke
Series: Dragon Age II Kinkmeme [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619464
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "cliche fic".

It must have been a tragedy of a car ride. Already tense and trembling, the greyhound exploded at the sound of the first ring.

'Pol! Calm down! Down, oh, I'm so sorry, down!'

Skittering nails and white gums. Anders retreated until the dog realised the walls weren't moving however fast he circled, shuddering legs splayed on the vinyl and skinny tail tucked under in what Anders never referred to aloud as the typical sighthound _don't rape me_ posture. Merrill went to her knees and waited, hand outstretched and eyes to the side. Once the gums lowered and the eyes softened, Anders inched past and buzzed back to reception.

'Lirene?'

'I told him we don't do cats. I showed him the sign, I gave him the number of the all hours clinic in Hightown, directions to the track vet just down the road. But he's still standing here, and he's been standing here for ten minutes, glaring at me. He won't even talk any more. I don't know what to do.'

 _Call the guard._ Anders was tempted; the clock on the wall read ten past one. 'It's my lunchbreak, Lirene.'

'I can't even tell if the blood is his or his cat's.'

'Wonderful. Put him in two, I'll finish with Pol and go through. And get me a teriyaki or something from across the road? Please? Extra meat, extra rice.'

'Thank you, in two.' The primness told him there would be no teriyaki. Stale peanut biscuits and a cup of tea. Fuck it.

On the floor, cradling a greyhound in her lap almost as big as she was, Merrill looked as if Anders had just broken her heart. Those big eyes. The tone of her voice said something else entirely.

'I warned you he was still jumpy before we came in. You couldn't have told Lirene not to interrupt?'

Anders collected a handful of liver treats, making the rustling as obvious as possible, palming the blood collection tube with his other hand. Sepsis, but he'd been able to save the leg with Karl's generous antibiotic dispensary supplementing; it had been a tiny spider bite, but even those were bloody lethal in this city. 'He must be healing up well if he's feeling so spry.'

Merrill disdained to answer. Pol watched him approach warily, too knowing for a petrified greyhound. Putting it on, maybe. Anything for hugs and lapsitting?

'I suppose he's going to react to this in the same way he did last time?'

The reproachful look Merrill gave told Anders that any ensuing panic, staged or otherwise, would be firmly blamed on him. 

Waiting in two was a sizable moggie pinioned to the exam table by two huge hands. Matted fur poked between the fingers, too bloody for markings to show. Ears flat, huge green eyes, a wide and feral bridge of nose. The yowling and growling was slow, constant and steady, claws sheathing and unsheathing against the table. Anders' stomach decided to join the chorus, the cat's growl pausing as it turned its head almost full circle to search the room for a rival. The tail lashed freely.

The owner was as large as his hands suggested, blood seeping steadily from a lucky swipe across the bridge of his nose, thin red lines ribboning bare forearms. Mostly interested in the cat, Anders saw not much more, apart from the beard. It was a difficult beard not to notice.

'Looks nasty. What happened?'

'I found him like this.'

'Not good.'

The owner muttered something, then said angrily, 'I know it's not good, that's why I brought him to the bloody vet.'

'Where's the blood coming from? Any observable injuries?'

'You want me to do your job for you? You're the vet. I can barely hold him.'

'It can be easier transporting cats in a box.'

'You're welcome to try.' 

He probably didn't mean it to sound like a threat. Anders hoped. 'Who's his usual vet?'

'Dunno.'

'What's his name?'

'Dunno.'

Tableside manner. Client focused. Poor confused animals just needing a steady hand to calm them down and patch them up in this strange cruel world. Also the benefit of not being deported with an addition of grievous bodily harm to his criminal record. Anders took a breath.

'Is this your cat?'

'Not exactly.'

'Not exactly.'

The beard bristled. 'It's my neighbour's. He's away. I found the bugger like this, great clots of blood all over the pavement and in the pool. Hid in my dog's kennel, miaowing his head off, frightened the bloody dog off, too. Are you going to actually do something, or are we just going to stand here talking until the cat passes out from boredom?' Blue eyes, narrowed in annoyance.

'Right. Hold him steady.'

'What does it look like I'm doing?'

Anders examined the cat's ears first, with the cat snapping at him like a dog. Poor thing had an identity crisis. He found the tattoo inside the second, the microchip a tiny ricelike scar, and a quick swipe with the barcode reader revealed a Hightown address for home. Flash. It was also as far away from the clinic as possible, at least by car - but if the beard was lying about his neighborliness, it was none of Anders' business.

'Fenris.' The cat's ears twitched at his name, but he was not inclined to sniff Anders' fingers. Anders tried for a soothing rub of the nape, only for the growl to reach a disturbing level. 'All right, I get it. Not happy with the touching.'

With firmness combating the cat's fear, Anders opened the mouth, checked pale gums, noting a couple of jagged, broken teeth that would need attending; the huge green eyes were responsive to motion but not light. Shock, not too severe despite the cat's constant and vocal evidence; stethoscope worming between the not-owner's thick, calloused fingers to a sticky patch of fur. Lungs ok but breath too shallow, heart likewise too fast but steady, not skipping. Fingering gentle along the cat's taut abdomen, but there were no injuries there, no evident knots inside, the texture of the liver smooth, slightly swollen. No broken limbs, no evidence of rape or bites, furry testicles intact and not overly sensitive. 

'That might be an answer.' Anders spoke mostly to himself, but the beard perked up.

'You found where he's hurt? There?' Tense, angry.

'Uh. No. But if there was any female cats in heat around, he might have got himself into a fight. Come out the best, by the looks of it. Either that, or he's a penchant for bathing in blood. I can't find an obvious injury.'

'Why won't he shut up?'

'Who knows? Maybe he's bragging.'

'Maybe you're incompetent.'

'He's in shock,' Anders said stiffly. 'That's obvious. So whatever the fight was, it's shaken him up. A lot.'

The beard seemed to wrestle with something internally. 'If the cat was maybe on drugs.'

'Are you serious? What have you done?'

'I didn't do anything. I told you, he belongs to my neighbour. I just found him.'

'Your "neighbour" is a thirty minute drive from here.'

'It's a big neighbourhood.'

'And a small city, so either you're lying or you came here specifically. What's really going on?' Anders pointed at the screen behind him, Fenris' address blinking green. 'I could report you for abuse if the cat's drugged. Not so many houses on the Esplanade, what with how big they all are.'

The mouth was a thin line. 'I heard there was a clinic around here that handles ex-race dogs. Fighting dogs. Rescue cases. This is a fighting cat, and I'm rescuing it.'

'You're rescuing it.'

'As of right now. I don't know how he got out of Danarius' estate, but he picked my yard to wander around yowling his bloody head off dripping gore. So it's my rescue cat. Report my neighbour if you want, just fix this bugger up.'

Anders struggled with something he called conscience. Cats would always be difficult for him.

'I'm keeping him in overnight,' Anders said steadily. 'I'll be running blood tests. You think it's amphetamines, steroids? No, look, don't tell me. Because dependent on what I find, I'm still reporting this, and you can do the explaining about whose cat it is. Leave your details with Lirene at reception. I trust you'll have no difficulty meeting the payment required.'

A brief, toothy grin which had nothing of the smile in it. 'I would shake your hand but the cat would probably go for grim vengeance. You want me to carry him somewhere, or are you going to handle him?'

Firmly wrapped in the man's hands, Fenris somewhat resembled an angry bloodsoaked skittle.

'You may as well come through.'

Fenris protested his immobilisation against the chest by biting at the huge hands. The beard winced a time or two, but for the most part was stoic, dourly incurious about the flaking linoleum in the corridor to the back room, the tread on the heavy boots lifting raw edges to expose concrete beneath. Anders wondered if the mood was the man's native state. Hiding worry for the cat? Or something worse. Maybe cats were his worst nightmare, too. More likely he was thinking about clots of blood scattered through his very expensive backyard. Being annoyed about having to get his pool guy out for a second time this week to clean up the gore. Lives of Kirkwall's rich and wealthy and their drugged fighting cats.

It was all very mysterious. Anders didn't need this.

The cage was meant for a small dog, but Fenris probably would have massacred anything up to the size and weight of a whippet, judging by the fight to put him into the cage. The cat pressed himself against the bars as if he could slot through, one paw waving forlornly if it wasn't for the bloody claws at the end, miaows turning mournful enough to break the heart. _Manipulative little sod._

The beard contemplated Fenris dolefully, reluctant to leave.

'Sorry, cat. I'll deck the bastard one for you.'

Anders hesitated at the door. 'If you have a moment, come back into the exam room and I'll clean up those scratches. You'll have to watch the bites carefully, they can abscess. I'll tell you what to look for so you can go to your doctor--'

His hand was shrugged off, the back turned on him without concern. 'Doesn't matter. Thanks anyway.'

It was two o'clock. Anders was starving.


	2. Chapter 2

'Garrett Hawke on the line, asking if you're available for a drop in.'

Well aware of the grease on his fingers and chin, Anders pleaded with Lirene. 'It's my lunchbreak.'

'He can come later in the day,' Lirene said, expressionless.

Anders dumped the remaining drumstick and reached for a wet wipe already soiled beyond redemption. 'You've got my calendar. Why are you asking me?'

'Garrett _Hawke_. You know who I mean, right? The wildcat? You'll have to make time for him, you're booked all afternoon. What should I tell him?' 

Two weeks and two days had passed with Lirene reporting her emails and phone messages to the beard unanswered, and Anders had resigned himself to needing to find a new home for the cat. He felt sorry for it, overgrown monster. A cookpot or fighting pit would probably be its end, and even Kristoff said to keep him for a month. To give him the chance he deserved. Anders was almost jaded enough not to care. Almost. 

'Five thirty. Should only get him stuck in traffic from his place for an hour or so.'

'Petty. Mr Hawke paid his bill well before the due date.'

'I know, I'm awful. And today's one of my good days.'

Anders could have asked after the man's name earlier. Hadn't. Reasons unexamined. Nor had he told Kristoff more than the general disconcerting details, during one of those times when Kristoff surfaced and could approximate a real conversation. Meanwhile, Karl had been his usual magnanimous self when ringing through the blood test results. ' _What the hell are you getting into, Anders?'_

The "neighbour" who'd drugged a cat could have been a red herring, or Hawke could have nicked some rich guy's cat off the street at random. The blood could have been a prank. The cat's shock could have come from a bunch of children intent on torment. In this city, obsessed with its blood sports as it were, it could have been nothing more than the usual: an actual fighting cat for a betting ring. 

The test results told Anders it wasn't nothing.

The cat turned outright broody after the worst of the lyrium dose wore off, a larger box given for him to practice his emphatic pacing technique. Anders had always hated cages, and took to letting the cat out after hours just to watch him move. In a motion towards truce, Fenris never bothered to fight being put back to bed, giving Anders instead a calculated glare. _I choose not to embarrass you today. Appreciate my leniency_. Anders was likewise careful never to walk the dogs out through Fenris' room. Evidently at some point in the cat's history, he'd had hounds set on him, and the dogs' characteristic lean profile generated a furor of spitting and posturing.

It almost terrified the dogs more than the cat.

Introspective as he fed the newest occupants of the clinic, Anders missed the buzzer when Garrett arrived, jumping a little when the shout travelled through from reception. 'Hello? Vet...person.'

All but two of the dogs stopped eating, alarmed at the strange voice.

'Through here. Out back, to the right. I'm keeping company with the dogs.'

'There's no receptionist.'

Delivered like a damning criticism. 'That's because it's after hours and she went home.' Not that this Garrett would get the point.

'You should lock your door, in this part of town all alone with a clinic full of drugs.' Garrett found his way through the warren of corridors, pausing at the threshold. The other two dogs stopped eating at the sight of him. Cowering. 

'You see this lot? Their kennel fed them through a syringe. Vitamins, nutrients, raw calories and performance enhancers. A year old, and they hardly knew what to do with solid food.'

Garrett's forehead furrowed. He stepped back from the door, and if it was a silent apology it was good enough. Anders felt obliged to follow.

'How's the cat?'

'Alert and responsive, eating well. No bugs or illness, but still unsettled. How's your neighbour? Is he back yet? Demanding the return of his prize fighting cat?'

'No idea. I just got in again today.'

'Oh, _lovely_. This is a clinic, not a cattery. Next time you need someone to catsit, try your mother.'

Raging blue eyes. 'I paid his medical, didn't I? Anyway, I wasn't expecting to be called out so soon, I had no one else to ask-- Just give me my cat. Please.'

Disgruntled, Anders led the man through to Fenris' room. 'So where were you? Island holiday? Your tan didn't take.'

A snort. 'At work. Mines.'

'I wasn't expecting that. I don't know why, considering this whole port city in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mines. Which one?'

'You hardly sound like a local with that accent. What part of the motherland are you from? East?'

'Speak for yourself, Fereldan. Why do people always have to ask--'

'Forget it. All I meant was, are you likely to know the difference if I tell you which mine is mine?' 

'Try me. I've been here three years.'

'The Bone Pit.'

'Not even remotely challenging. Everyone knows the Bone Pit. Lord Amell's most unwise investment. It headlines in the Financial Times every couple of months.'

'Yeah,' Garrett said. 'That's the one.'

'And here you stand, possessed of every limb and your sanity besides. What's it like? Apart from the money.'

'Brutal. _Especially_ the money.'

After a couple of close calls, Anders had taken to knocking on the door before interrupting Fenris' prowl time. Garrett didn't even give him a funny look when he did. The cat stood poised, one paw raised off the damp concrete, Anders having hosed the room down just before letting him out.

Garrett's shoulders eased at the sight, and Fenris actually sat down despite the water, tail curling neatly around his legs. 

Anders closed the door. 'He must really like you. Took him four days before he would settle like that around me.'

'We have a history.'

'With your neighbour's cat. When you never even knew his name.'

Garrett gave him a look. 'You know the name of every cat using your porch?'

'There's a lot of strays around here, the names'd start getting pretty stupid after a while. Repetitive--'

Anders rubbed the sudden pain away from the image behind his eyes, and missed seeing Garrett sink to the floor. The knees cracked and popped, legs crossed stiffly, inflexible as the attitude. But the great boots were soundless on the vinyl, soles looking like they'd been dipped in acid. Garrett stretched out a freckled paw and whisked calloused fingers together. 

'Fenris doesn't like being petted.'

Garrett huffed. 'Yes he does. Watch. Or better yet, don't watch. He's selfconscious.' Hand dangling, he looked in the opposite direction, lids heavy. Such thick lashes. 'Sit down, vet person. And look away.'

Interested despite his irritation, Anders sank into the antiseptic fug radiating from the damp concrete, hands on his knees and eyes on Garrett. After a few breaths, a shadow flickered at the outstretched hand.

Garrett's whole face softened when he smiled. How old was he? Younger than Anders first thought. Younger than Anders, for sure. He'd fallen out of the habit of comparison. 

'You can look now.'

Fenris walked back and forth under those limp fingers, spine arching into the palm. Garrett made no move to hold him, the purr increasing in volume, eyes slitted with pleasure.

'Some history.'

Garrett opened his eyes. 'I owe you board for the last fortnight.'

'You do. And you also owe it to the cat to bring him back, say in a week.'

Fenris kept monopolising the hand, but Garrett's expression shuttered again. Never the best reader of personality, Anders had little idea how to adjust his conversation for a face as cold as that. 

'It's nothing major, I'm just not sure Fenris is fully cleared, and there's also other work he needs. The teeth, for starters. He's lost or broken a lot of them, and I'll need to anaesthetise him to work on them. Or you could find another vet at a larger surgery, someone closer to home.'

Garrett shrugged. 'Might be worth the drive to avoid the funny looks. I think it's the accent.'

If Garrett wandered around Hightown wearing miner's boots and looking as worn as he did... 'Something tells me it's not the accent they're staring at.'

'Flatterer.' Garrett said it so seriously Anders did look at him funny; Garrett bared his teeth, that unpracticed smile. 'There, you see? That kind of look. Still nothing compared to what they're like in Hightown. All that open curiosity and complete lack of acknowledgement. You'd think I was showing up at one of old Marlie's gigs wearing a lumberjacket and no pants.' 

Shocked skepticism, one of the better catchall expressions when you didn't know what the customer was talking about, where benign interest tended to imply you wanted to hear more. Except Garrett looked unconvinced. The cold, wet concrete was starting to chafe regardless; Anders stood abruptly. 

'So if you didn't know his name, how did you know Fenris was a fighting cat? And about the drugs?'

'My neighbour told me. He's a-- what do they call them here? Big gold necklaces, silk shirts, mansion full of servants paid by food and board instead of coin.'

'An aristocrat?'

'Heh. Owns a few gyms. A manager, or a trainer or something, for one of the boxing federations. Bragged about having a cat who pulled apart a dog in a run; best fifty he ever spent, he said. Then one day Fenris here was stretched out on my porch in the sun. I saw him and thought, if I've ever seen a cat that could pull apart a dog, that's it.' A faint wistful look. 'Had a queer moment where I thought he was a wildcat or something, to be honest. I haven't seen one of them since I was a kid.'

How very disturbing, to have a guess founded in hyperbole prove right. A rush of words, 'That's awful. Cat teeth aren't made for grip and tug. No wonder his mouth is a mess.' 

'Out of everything I just said that's awful, in a city where the government absolutely ignores the an obsession with blood sport, it's his mouth that upsets you.' A faint moue. 'What should I expect? The industry pays your bills.'

 _Barely._ Bastard. Gruff with his own self importance. Anders felt the corner of his mouth twitching. 'Well, you can rest your conscience easy for the next few weeks, because you'll be paying my bills. Maybe for longer, if you're really hankering for a familiar accent. I'll have to memorise some poetry, give you a few theatrical monologues. I won't have it said this clinic's not value for money.'

'What was in his blood? You haven't told me.'

'Oh. You probably haven't heard of it. An ore, not a drug. Dangerously addictive, but there wasn't huge quantities in Fenris' blood--'

Something behind the beard shifted. Garrett swallowed hard, pushing past an obvious reluctance. 'That bastard fed his cat lyrium?'

'How do you know--'

A snort. 'What do you think we really mine at the Bone Pit? We would have been closed down if not for--' Garrett's mouth snapped shut. Opened again, 'You've been here three years, you know what it's like. No one helps you unless you can help them back.'

The papers touted the Bone Pit as a nickel mine. Anders felt strangely betrayed. 

Even Merrill never really criticised the city's operations, focused as she was on her little rehabilitation mission. Piecing together the broken, without fighting fate. _I've given up trying to change the world, Anders. But even I can still make a single life better._ Karl was far too diplomatic for vocal complaint, a pre-war migrant who had actually made good, and if he was under added scrutiny now the city was overflowing with his countrymen fleeing the war, he was secure enough to glide through, blithe. Anders hated to think how many bribes and services had earned him that respect and security. And the usual battered race dogs Anders treated were kennel bred with profit focused owners, or street dogs brought over by Darktown's few well-meaning inhabitants. All of which which meant Garrett was the most vocal critic of the city's status quo that Anders had encountered in his entire time here - and Garrett turned out to be a pretender as well. 

A proper Marcher. Weren't they all. _You don't have to be committed to take the job,_ Karl had said, mellowing after his pipe. _But no one's going to care about your credentials, and the more useful you make yourself to the blood market beat, the less likely it is you'll come to the attention of the authorities._

But an interest would help when facing constant abuse, Anders knew from experience. An interest at least gave the activity meaning. A polite, detached interest in bettering the lives of these poor battered creatures. This wasn't his city, wasn't his culture, and wasn't his problem, really, for as long as he could pass under the notice of the authorities. 

Anders began to feel angry at Garrett without really understanding why.

'You should probably go. I'll get you an onion bag for the cat. Seeing as he doesn't like boxes.' Anders busied himself beneath the sink, digging for the requisite distraction. He heard Garrett shuffling to his feet and shoved the bag at him. 'I'll leave you to it. Just don't be all night about it. I have dogs to walk.'


	3. Chapter 3

Anders collected his lunch before work from the truckstop across the road, an ambiguous curry intended to keep until midday. He hoped. As a strategy to combat his usual lunchbreak overruns, it had a variable level of success and tended to keep him thin.

When fresh off the boat, Anders had taken advantage of Kristoff's better days to indulge his paranoia about filling the requirements of his tourist visa. For a so-called holy city, he found few places suitable for a spiritual stocktake. The docks were mercantile, functional and mostly ugly. The Chantry had no sight of the refugees flooding the city or the city's homegrown poor, who might have actually benefited from a sister's attentions. Hightown was an artefact out of context, shaped by a wealth of history that no longer applied. The cars parked centrally along cobbled medians cost more than Anders had earned in his lifetime. Even Lowtown was radially planned as if to deliberately confuse strangers, and none of Anders' knowledge of the Fereldan hierarchy of roads applied. Depressed, the sound of jackhammers flooding Lowtown made him think of rattlesnakes in the grass, the constant threat of industry devouring any personality that might have softened the streets. No clothing hung between narrow buildings, no sunlight braved the scaffolding. 

Accepting Karl's offer of a job, Anders had felt shocked to numbness at the sights on the way to Darktown. And the clinic itself, which Karl seemed to regard with no particular shock. Uninhabitable on one side, with a bright gleeful sign on the other, a stylish render of a running greyhound, a streetlight with a dangling, if functional globe, fresh parking lines, cracked asphalt, and a completely absurd, sparklingly new parking meter cemented into a crack in the kerb. Convenient to both the legal racetracks down the road and the illegal pits on the city's outer limits, tenements overshadowed the place just off the main strip, cutting any chance of a breeze. A tiny patch of visible sky, no horizon. The triangular patch of land bridged between an oily inlet, the city's main truck route, and the trainline coming in from regional mines.

On occasion, the trains and trucks conspired to let a silence fall. Every time the sheer unlikelihood of _finding calm_ struck Anders like a bell, and he felt like he had seen the face of someone else's creator. _Even in this mess._ He might have sold Andraste's inverted sword along with his necklace years ago, but the dogma stuck.

He strolled across the silent road and went around the back way to say hello to the dogs.

'What did you say to him?' The kettle boiled fitfully, vulnerable to the fluctuating electricity.

'Morning, Lirene.'

'Oh, I doubt that. Think back, three days ago. Our Garrett Hawke. Or as I like to call him, Forbes' Fictional Sixteenth.'

Anders blinked at her.

'Maker, Anders, you need to get out more. The billionaire with the cat. The too good to be true rags to riches story? There was that awful unauthorised biography about a year ago, before he turned around and bought every copies off the shelf, then bought the publishing rights off the author. Cheaper than lawyers, he said. It was all over the papers.'

'Scandalous.'

Whatever expression he wore, Lirene's classical scorn faded. He was thinking of those great boots, worn soles, the dirt on tatty denim hems. 

'You really didn't know?'

'I'm not into popular fiction. Hey. _Hey!_ Send him that second invoice for Fenris' board. Bastard thinks he can walk out of here without paying--'

'That's what I was saying,' Lirene said, irritated. 'He called just then and paid. With interest. He said you forgot to give him the invoice in the rush last night. He was...um. Trying to be charming. I think. With interest, Anders! No one else even bothers to read the terms.' 

A sinking feeling. 'He didn't make another appointment, did he?'

'Tuesday fortnight, 11am. Oh, don't look so disgruntled. With the street dogs you take in, it's not that often we have paying clients. Not to mention the trainers who don't cough up when their race favourite dies. Maybe you could talk him into a contribution?' 

'Not likely. It'd be blood money.'

A pitying look. 'This is Kirkwall, Anders. It's all blood money.'

'That's what I like about this place. Snap judgements always apply.'

* * *

'Let me guess. You couldn't be bothered finding another vet. No, wait. You couldn't even pay someone to find you another vet?'

'Contrarily. I tried one down the road.'

A compelling silence. 'And?'

'I wasn't impressed. Neither was Fenris.'

Not necessarily a compliment, coming from Garrett Hawke. Too good to give his money to anyone but another Fereldan. _I should tell him I'm not. If I cared._

'Well, you're late anyway. I was enjoying the lull, hoped you'd forgotten.'

'Forgotten you, with your charm and personable manner? Not likely.' Garrett waited until he closed the exam room door before he made a move to unzip the leather jacket. Fenris leapt for the opening as soon as it was given, bounced off the exam table and resolved huddled in the sink, glaring over the lip. 

'Fenris decided to make a break for it.' Almost an apology. 'It took me a while to convince him to come back. He hates it inside.'

Anders went to flank the sink, Fenris tracking him warily. 'So don't keep him inside.'

'And him unsterilised. What sort of a vet do you call yourself.'

'One disinterested in domestic animal control policy in the face of worse atrocities. Anyway, the lyrium would have sterilised him for a good few months.' Anders managed to get a hand on Fenris, then under him, bringing him back to the table with only minimal protest. The jacket's open zipper caught Anders' eye. 

'You've a bit of hair on your chest.'

Garrett examined the clumps Fenris had left. 'Heh. Thought you were flirting for a minute.'

 _And of course that would be so repulsive._ Anders bit back the grin, which would have been more of a teeth-in-throat promise than anything more human and civilised. He'd been around dogs too long.

Beneath the fur, Fenris' skin crawled against Anders' palm, a hundred tiny points flinching and skittering. The cat tried to bite him again, which Anders combated with the authority of a finger smacked across the black nose. The pupils were huge, gums pale. Fenris flinched and yowled, but not from the finger. Finding and hearing the fluttering heartbeat made Anders' chest ache in sympathy.

'It's the third time he's run away. Had to jump the fence to get him back.'

A spontaneous volunteering of information, however dour. 'He runs home again? I suppose you are right next door.'

'You...think he's trying to get to the lyrium?'

'I think he's succeeded in getting lyrium. Yesterday, if anything. You didn't notice the aggression, the hyperactivity?'

A further disgruntled silence, utterly discouraging. Anders clamped his mouth shut on the urge to console. _Not like it's his brother. Just a cat._

'When can you do his teeth?'

'Um.' Karl had cleared his calendar tomorrow, but a bottle of something sweet and a late night, he wouldn't be upset. Not that Karl was ever upset. Anders mostly acted to appease his own conscience. 'This has to be out of his system before we put him under. You have to keep him indoors for another two, say, three weeks. Unless you want me to keep him here again.' Now why even make the offer? Fenris had no underlying conditions, and lyrium on its own didn't get risky enough to need hospitalisation for years. 

Garrett contemplated, shook his head. 'I've got used to the company. I should get a cat tray, or something, he usually makes a break for it when I take him and the dog out for their business.' The nose wrinkled across the bridge, where the thin cat scratch had scarred white amongst the weatherlines. 

'It's not easy, him withdrawing. Keep him hydrated more than anything, with wet food if he's not touching the water. Cats sometimes don't. Keep the dog away. Give him things to grip and tear; he ripped through seven mattresses when he was here. And some dog toys.'

Faintly impressed. The big hand curled over Fenris' trembling back, avoiding Anders' hands where he held the cat cupped under chest and over the haunches. 'Explains the sundries item on your bill.'

'There's,' _shit,_ 'substitutes you could give him.' _What I am doing._ 'I could order some in.' Or steal Kristoff's. What was wrong with him? 

'Now, that's interesting. Because if lyrium doesn't exist, makes me wonder how treatment exists.'

'Ah, you know medical fraternities, medical franchises. Think of it as a secret sauce recipe, there's always a generic version.' There was no way he should be saying this to the owner of a lyrium mine. Surana would kill him if she knew.

Garrett seemed inclined to stand there stroking his cat, and occasionally (accidentally) Anders' hand. A whiff of distressed zoo when he leaned forward, from the well worn leather jacket rather than the cat. _Probably wears a wifebeater, sweats years into the jacket's lining. Fooling no one._

Fenris meowed, then sighed hugely and went limp. They looked down together.

'So. You'll be back in three weeks. Same day, same time?'

'Yeah, probably.' A long pause. 'He trusts you. Sort of. You should have seen what he did to that vet when she whipped out a thermometer. Thought I'd be seeing another summons to court. Nothing like a bit of bestial GBH to spice the socialites' section of the Financial Times.'

Grinning despite himself, Anders helped Garrett zip the jacket closed when Fenris decided to play kangaroo on departure, claws punching through lining and leather both.

* * *

Two days later, no appointment. Anders was locked in three with Merrill and a wolfhound she collected from the slums. The wolfhound whimpered helplessly while Anders cleaned the half-chewed tail, the sound both human and not human, an unmistakeable a plea to _stop_. The sound got to Anders, his sheer helplessness to combat the dog's pain and confusion. Fix the obvious wounds, stop the bleeding. Even in medical school, his inclinations were for surgery or ICU than anything involving people. 

He walked Merrill and her stumbling companion to the kennels, ducking into two when she took over settling the dog with familiar blankets. 

'Sorry about that. What's happened?'

The jacket this time was a truly horrible lumberjack's affair, unzipped to disgorged a limp Fenris, ungroomed, fur matted and soiled. He curled into a ball as soon as his feet touched the table. He looked like he'd meowed himself mute, creaky groans emerging from the open jaw. 

Whether it was the wait, or the dog's whimpering from before, Garrett was restless. While Anders checked Fenris over, he moved around the room, touching posters years out of date, flicking his thumbnail over the locks on the painted wood drawers. 

'Hello? I can't read the cat's mind, you know.'

'You're not any good at full disclosure, are you? If I'd had the barest idea what that would be like-- How much would that substitute cost?' Subdued, almost apologetic.

Anders remembered what Kristoff went through. Twice, even, once when still on the front with nothing but Anders' hand to help. He felt a bit of sympathy for those shadows under Garrett's eyes. But-- _Always doing the wrong thing, for the right reasons._ He'd resigned himself to failure years ago.

'He's over the worst now. I can't see any point prescribing--'

'You don't understand. I couldn't do anything for him. I don't like being helpless.' 

'You don't like being helpless? Sorry, what's this to do with you? This is about the cat.'

Garrett scrubbed his nose, brows lowering. In the silence, Anders could hear Merrill speaking to Lirene outside, lilting yet firm. Instructions for the dog, which Lirene would politely nod at and ignore.

'If you really want to do something, I'd suggest some alternative therapies, calming techniques without needing medication.'

'For a cat? Are you serious?' Disgust. 'I'll bring him along to my yoga classes, shall I? We can ponce about together communing with our inner selves.'

Anders wanted to get angry. _Fuckhead._ But he remembered the blood on Garrett's arms and nose, the thirty minute drive to get here each time, and the big, gentle hands which had cradled the shivers out of the cat the time before. Who walked the cat along with a dog - and it would be a big, utterly loyal mongrel of a dog, Anders just knew -- so they could do their business together.

'Sure, if you want. Meanwhile, I'll have Lirene email you the address of someone involved with behavioural rehabilitation, her name's Merrill. Don't let the fact she's not registered make a difference, she knows her stuff. And her limits. Fenris is past the worst, so she might be able to help him get some sleep.' 

Garrett collected his cat and turned his back, conversation closed.


	4. Chapter 4

'I'm not sure if I should thank you for the reference.'

Anders hadn't known ears could suffer cramp until he'd met Merrill. He held office the phone away while he rubbed his ear with the other hand, pained. Kirkwall's people tended to quiet, practicing long silences in the overcrowded city as if to reclaim space. 

He brought the phone back just in time to hear the last word. 'I'm sorry?' 

'Oh, don't be. It was a very interesting cat, and the interruption certainly dragged me away from the daily grind. Is he a wildcat? I don't think he's domesticated. Sprayed all over my counter then bit me, without any of the usual warning signs. Though I suppose I was looking for a dog's body language, not a cat.'

For Fenris' sake, Anders was glad Garrett had followed through. But Anders had started to think of both cat and man as a fantasy, the rich man wearing stubborn dirt, the drug addicted giant cat. It sounded unreal. Something he had made up out of boredom. He found himself wondering about them at odd times of the day, and having Merrill talk about them like just another case made his musings seem shallow, mundane. 

'Garrett's almost as bad.'

'What? No, really? I thought he was charming. He offered to pay for new curtains after Fenris-- Well, "after Fenris", I suppose I should say, as he was an experience in itself,' peevish. 'Ah, everyone keeps telling me I'm too blunt. Or frank. Kirkwall is a strange place, even after these years. I had to void the bill after dinner, though, I just felt it wasn't fair to charge him after the amount we ate - and, oh, _Anders._ The wine was _wonderful_. I didn't even know there was anywhere in Kirkwall that cooked like that.' A heartsick sigh. 'So much of home seems attached to food. I felt like I was at home again. Shortages aside, it's not often I can really get my teeth into a decent hunk of meat here.'

'Garrett took you to dinner.'

'Well, he noticed I wasn't a Marcher from the accent. He's from Ferelden as well, did you know? Like us. But he's had an easier time fitting in here than I seem to have had, or you. Maybe it's because his mother was a Marcher. It was a magnificent piece of meat, just perfectly tender. Are you still there? Anders?'

'Yes.'

'Sorry, it went so quiet, I couldn't even hear you breathe.'

'You can hear me breathe normally?'

'You're a loud breather. I always thought it was because of the broken nose.'

'My nose isn't broken.'

'Obviously not now, but in the past, seeing as it healed, well, into the shape that it is.'

'I've never broken my nose.'

'Well, don't feel too bad about it. It's a very charming nose, and functional. Why, listen to you breathing. I mean. Um.'

A sudden and powerful resentment shocked Anders cold, apart from his ears, which were flaming. But Merrill and Garrett were similar in ways he never bothered to think about. Physical ways. They would make a perfect picture. The glossy black hair. The lips neither thick nor thin, guarded in stillness, expressive more through words than shape. It was the eyes that betrayed both of them, but those fine details never made it to magazines; in the few pictures Anders had found, Garrett looked cold, almost calculating, tough, when Anders had seen him sulk, smirk, whine. Even smile. Fine black brows, arching. The pale skin. Blue eyes to Merrill's green, and the size difference of course, where Merrill could have probably turned sideways and fit through a paling fence if it wasn't for the breasts '" and now he was thinking about Merrill's breasts, about Garrett's large hands on Merrill's breasts, _wonderful._

'Sorry - it's getting late. Did we come to a conclusion about the lesions yet? Do you want to bring her in or not?'

For once Merrill took the tone of his voice as a cue, and they spent the rest of the conversation focused on the progress of her problem greyhounds.

* * *

The cat stunk of lavender. Anders had little sleep the last few nights, tired enough the cat's wounded pride was more sad than hilarious. He moved through his usual check before he could steel himself to speak, as Fenris tried to rub the lavender away on his hands, coatsleeves and chest, and finally the exam table.

'Had a good time with Merrill, I take it?'

'Seems to know what she's doing.' Non committal. 'How did she get into the business?'

'I never asked. Finding meaning in a life of shallow history. Charity's always the first resort of the rich.' Every sentence made him feel like a worm. _Shut up, Anders._ 'You, uh, know she's old aristocracy? Actual aristocracy, not just a wealthy salesman.'

'Mm. She told me her family moved to estates near Kirkwall when they saw the war coming.' The mouth twitched. 'Smart. She got out before the rest of us.' 

Reluctantly, but he _wanted_ to be fair, 'I think she really loves the dogs. When it comes to charity work, you can't get fancy about the intent. There's no one else for them in a city like this.'

'She said she doesn't talk to her family any more. Estranged on her part or theirs?' 

Garrett was definitely interested. Fishing. Anders breathed deeply. Lavender and unhappy cat musk.

It was easy to dismiss Merrill, brain racing faster than her mouth could keep up. She never quite connected to her surroundings, lending an appearance of uncertainty. But it was less that than self-sufficiency; Merrill never changed her behaviour for anyone, never sought to make other people comfortable first, blithely apologising if she offended but never afraid of the offence to begin with. That sort of strength could be attractive, Anders supposed. With her background, Merrill probably knew how to deal with the media shitstorm that flared up around Garrett every time some new disaster hit the Bone Pit, _highest deathrate on a mine worldwide._

Now he was fantasising them getting married and Merrill fielding media scandals. Soon he'd be naming their children. Two boys and a girl, glossy black braids and grass-stained feet - _Stop it!_

'Uh. It was a mutual estrangement, I think. "You can come back if you stop living with poor people and touching scabrous dogs", and "I'll come back if you let me live with poor people and offer succour to scabrous street dogs".'

Left to himself momentarily, Fenris settled to groom with great distaste. Anders watched him lick and hack. 

'Stop that,' Garrett told the cat sharply. 'You'll be sick again. I warned you what would happen if you attacked the bottle.'

Anders took the opportunity to reclaim the cat and finish his examination. Somewhere through the handling, Fenris stopped grumbling and started to purr, as loud and wholehearted as the cat's growls and grunts. How long had it been since he last held a purring cat?

'He got out again. Only once this time. Tried to go home for another lick of the dust, but I grabbed him mid leap for the fence.' Garrett rolled his sleeve to show off the wounds on his forearm. _Thick wrist. Fur. Even the watch looks strained._ 'One day I'm not going to be able to get him back.'

'Is your neighbour still away?'

A shrug. 'I think his boyfriend's moved in,' with heaving scorn. 'Nine to five shirtless and goes for an hour run twice a day. If there's anything he does besides work out I've yet to see it.'

'Shower. All that working out.' Anders ignored the knot in his stomach, curled guilt. Fenris spread out like a starfish under his hand, eyes wide open. _Well, you knew he was straight. Or is it the purring cat?_ Now he felt queasy.

'Oh _yeah_. In Danarius' bathroom with it's all glass walls.'

'You're not serious, are you?'

'Overlooking the river, no curtains.' A great sweep implying the expanse of view. 'I know this guy's tattoos better than he does. My brother used to have a paintball gun, should be somewhere in the garage, I keep thinking my roof deck, there's a palm up there for cover, we could lay down interference across the glass--' Garrett cut off sharply.

'Maybe you could pass on a politely worded letter about curtains.' 

Abruptly, almost apologetically. 'How about you? How did you get into this?'

'Not important. Uninteresting.'

Garrett picked fur off his horrible lumberjacket. 'I asked, didn't I? I'm interested.'

'I'd hate to disillusion you as to my generous nature.'

'Generous? I think you're a moody old bastard who probably takes this on out of a selfish love of penance. You remind me of my dad.' Garrett laughed, a little stupidly. 'Shit, I didn't mean-- He died when he was young, if that helps. Young and _handsome_.'

Anders went with it, even if his laugh was dry, tired. The knot in his stomach eased with the smile. The cat headbutted Garrett's hand.

'Yeah, it helps. But I'll leave the penance to someone with better shoulders.' 

'You haven't answered me. Why here? You could work at the tracks, or the big franchises.'

'Maybe I live in the tenements and like to walk to work.'

'Sure. And maybe you really love the slop they call teriyaki from the truck stop across the road.'

'If you really have to know,' a pause, in which Garrett arched one eyebrow. 'I'm not a qualified vet.' 

'No wonder you never reported the lyrium abuse. Staying away from attention?'

'Something like that.'

'I don't-- Do you work for one of the gangs? Feeding up street dogs and handing them over for the pits to use?' 

'Maker, no. There's no gang,' and because he was pathetic enough to need a veneer of honesty, 'no one gang. I don't fluff for dog fights, they respect that, because I patch up afterwards with no reports to the relevant authorities. It's enough to get by, after paying the rent for this place, for my apartment...' He leaned on Karl too much for supplies. 'You had it easy. You came from Ferelden into an inheritance. Not all of us had that. This is just a job.'

'Did you desert?'

If there had been even a hint of accusation in those eyes. But instead just a long, steady blue. Cool as horizons.

'I was conscripted. What do you expect? I left the first chance I got.'

'Deserted.' Grim satisfaction. 

'Along with the rest of the Fereldans in this city. I wasn't even born in Ferelden, I don't-- What's your point?' Anders was done feeling guilt over that, at least. Surana might still kill him if they found him alive, but it wouldn't be for leaving. He thought.

Garrett heaved his shoulders, more than a shrug. The breath he let out was a shudder. 'I was army. I joined a few years before the war.'

'Are you expecting congratulations?'

Garrett rubbed his beard, a scratchy sound. 'Just... I don't know. Some kind of loyalty?' He sounded so young. 

'Look, Garrett. I've been in an out of boarding schools since twelve years old. I'm a drifter. I've lived in more apartments than I've had birthdays. Never really had much of a sense of loyalty except to myself.' Anders tried to close the topic. 'I know what you want me to say, but I'm not going to say it. I wasn't conscripted in Denerim, it was Amaranthine they got me, after the surrender-- There was no point in me staying. I couldn't have made a single bit of difference.' He hated this. Raking up coals. Bloody Garrett Hawke. 'What was your division?'

Because he was helpless but to ask. Had to know. Once in, never out, denials notwithstanding. Kristoff proved that.

Garrett looked conflicted. 'King's Seventh.'

'You were on the front.'

'Me and my brother.' The trace of a country accent there, _me bruvver_ , a time before the inheritance. Maybe the worn boots and dirty denim weren't trying to fool. No one joined the army if they had a choice, Anders thought. A guaranteed three square meals and a bedroll. Anders preferred hunger.

And also couldn't stop himself. 'What really happened? You hear rumours'"'

'We lost, the King died when he shouldn't have even been there, and then we ran.' A grin that looked horrible. 'You? The action at Amaranthine was one of the few successes.'

'Uh. WSR.' When Garrett looked immediately impressed, 'Don't get any ideas, though. I was in the infirmary.'

'You're...a doctor, not a vet?'

'Not exactly.'

'Not exactly.'

'Never finished my medical training. I had a few jobs in medical offices and vet clinics. Orderly in a few places. Worked a bar in a brothel once, if you can believe, and wound up running general first aid services for the staff.'

'Oh, I can believe.'

 _If he winks or nudges at me I'll really do something to remind him of his father._ 'By the time I got to Amaranthine, they were desperate, and I was the closest thing to a doctor.' 

Garrett tilted his head. It was a vulnerable position, the pale skin of his neck stretched bare of beard and the high, bulky collar. 'I won't dob you in.'

'I didn't think you would. Not when you've stolen your neighbour's lyrium addicted cat and have a death trap mine on your hands. There's more important things in your life than me.' A sharp breath. 'I mean. Thank you. Yes.'

Garrett accompanied him into the back room to put Fenris into his cage to fast. The place was lit up during business hours as it hadn't been the last time Garrett came through, and he peered curiously into the other rooms on the way out, stopping at the room with the missing wall. Anders had turned it into a daytime dog run with the addition of chicken-wire fencing, and heavy bar locks on the door to the hall for after hours. Two mongrels crouched in the dirty light.

'Who pays for these rescue jobs? Not the gangs.'

'Uh, donations, sort of. Tips, when a race dog's I've fixed up does well.'

'I thought you didn't do charity.' 

'I don't. But I have a hard time saying no. Some of kids in Darktown, they haven't learned to stop caring when the dogs get their tails run over and bring the poor bastards in. Then I spend half my energy resenting the fact I said yes and try to get the mutts out the door to starve to death again as quickly as possible. Merrill only takes on pedigrees. Sorry if that ruins this for you.'

'But you fix the damage for nothing.' The dogs backed away as Garrett stepped over the gate, but he dropped to a crouch on the concrete and waited.

'What I do is pointless,' Anders argued, without knowing why. _No more idealism. Not from Garrett, please._ 'This is fixing a frayed rope, instead of getting rid of the knife that keeps cutting it. Makework. But this city, you know. Probably swallow you whole if you tried to understand why things are the way they are, much less try to change anything. And its not even my place or right to judge. I'm a stranger here. What do I know of Marchers.'

'The way you tell it, you're a stranger everywhere.' The bolder bitch crept closer as if approaching her doom, neck offered to Garrett's hand. Anders could see the conflict in her skin, not knowing if he'd hurt, but needing the touch just the same. 'Does that mean you never try?'

'Now you sound like Kr-- my housemate.'

The dog softened into the palm, bandaged tail easing. Garrett stroked the arching neck. 'So why did you desert? You just had to get out of there?' 

'It was time to move on. They were almost around to demobilising us anyway, I was just...early.' Bile in his throat, stinging his nose. Anders sniffed the lavender off his fingers, but it only shook him more. The cat had purred. _For me._

But Garrett didn't look upset. Just thoughtful. 'We were never officially demobbed, whatever the rout. I suppose I deserted to try to reach my family in time. Me and my brother. We fought to get them out of there before the front hit our village.'

'Now you're here, they're not, and you're rich. What more could you ask?' Anders felt like an arsehole even as the words slipped out. 

Garrett didn't move, but the dog suddenly flinched, eyes to the floor. Slunk away. 'You're right. I can't complain.'

Awkwardly, Anders saw him to the clinic door. Garrett collected his riding gloves from Lirene her with a stiff smile, giving Anders a nod. Not meeting his eyes.

'You don't really ride a bike here every time, do you? That's not safe with a cat in your jacket. What if he farted or scratched you or something?' 

'Us rich people.' A humourless smile. 'We do what we like. Didn't anyone tell you?'


	5. Chapter 5

Her name had been Elaine. Or Ella? Probably still was her name, wherever she was. Someone else Anders had picked up without thinking, half because she was _there_ and fit the criteria: young, available, talked to him. The other half to make Karl look at him with limpid disappointment, or anger, or something. Except Karl never played games, and Anders chased her off himself when her presence had ceased to offer any balm, even though he'd wanted her precisely because of the conflict; triggered by some flippant comment she'd made about Kristoff and him, _old war buddies, sure, but cohabiting with a walking corpse? Come on, Anders..._

Her return anger burned him. The fact of his lovers' independent existence had always been hard for Anders to grasp. Karl had told him so.

This time, Karl kept back the told-you-so's and diligently applied verbal salve, providing vodka shots without judgement. 

_I'm ready. Karl, I'm ready for this properly, for you and me, no one else. I want to take it seriously._

Karl laughed at him. Nicely enough to take the sting away from the impulsive tears. In the old tongue, from before his family sent him to Ferelden. _You are years too old to pull that look, my friend._ Karl braided his hair and loaned him a razor, took him to dinner with vet school graduates who made Anders feel fifty, and after held him up in the shower -- decent water flow, in Karl's part of town -- and jerked him off for the first time in six years, with such a companionably platonic commentary throughout Anders slid down the tiles afterwards, hysterical. _Seduce your house captain before either of you were out of short trousers and what could you expect._

But there was no rage, no hurt. Emptiness. Maybe he could leave it all behind. Draw a line and just not think about it. Abstinence was nothing new, an old promise he used to make the Maker, _if I go without this please, please give me back this!_ It had rarely been his libido pushing him to pursue. _So stop running._ The games and the walls. The theatre, the scripts he wrote for significant events in his life and followed in the absence of knowing what the other person was feeling. Of caring what the other person was feeling. Maybe tending to Kristoff had taught him some level of compassion. It had certainly helped maintain his general abstinence, Karl's rare intercession notwithstanding.

He restrained himself, always for the wrong reasons.

'Augh. _Hawke_.'

'Oh, hi. It's Anders, from the clinic.' Never more selfconscious than when saying the name. 'I just wanted to apologise for today.'

'Huh?'

'I was out of line, I forgot--' _what happened to your family_. Saying it would give the apology context, but also make him an arse again for bringing it up. _Can't think these things through, can you._ He would never act if he paused to think.

'How did you get this number?'

'You left your contact details with Lirene. The assistant?' Anders could hear fingers scratching in that beard. 'I also wanted to say, you don't have to worry about Fenris. His bloodwork is clear and we'll be completing the procedure tomorrow. I have a friend come in for these things who is a qualified vet. Just in case you were worried about my lack of professional integrity after I dropped that bombshell on you.'

'I wasn't worried.' For the first time, or at least it felt like it, Hawke said his name. ' _Anders_. Do you have any idea what time it is?' 

A trick question? 'Eight thirty.'

'At night.' That emphasis wasn't good.

'Were you sleeping?'

'Yes.'

'But it's eight thirty.'

'Obviously you don't have a flight to catch at four in the morning.'

'Then I really am sorry. Did -- something happened at the mine?' 

'Read the paper.' A huff of breath. Garrett didn't hang up. 'Thanks for calling, I suppose. I appreciate it.'

As awkward as expected. But people did this, didn't they? Called each other to apologise, like adults... 

'Yes, I can hear just how much you appreciate--'

'Look, Anders.' Abruptly. 'I do that sometimes. More than sometimes. Get nosy, then get angry. Storm out of places. Cut people off. Don't...don't worry about it. It's not you.'

'I haven't let it bother me before. I just thought. I wanted to apologise. I'm not the most sensitive person in the world either.'

Anders counted his breaths while the silence held, trying to keep them quiet.

'I know,' Garrett said. 'Thanks. I really do appreciate it. Even if you're an arse about me being an arse.'

'Pot calling kettle?'

'Yeah, literally.' How to describe the sound of a grin. 'I'll see you in three days. Don't kill my cat.'

Anders returned the phone to cradle, heart hammering. 

Then he woke the dogs and played with them for half an hour instead of going back to his flat, too twitchy to give Kristoff the quiet he needed to sleep.

* * *

Fenris was a few hours out of the anesthetic, unhappy with lingering discomfort and vocal about it. Garrett poked at his requested jar of extracted teeth with interest, an oddly boyish fascination beneath the beard.

He also slurped his tea, one finger through the handle and no cup big enough. _Have to get some mugs._

'I could get it made into a necklace. A cattooth necklace trumps shark teeth, right?'

'Make sure you fit some elastic in somewhere. Cats aren't good with collars.'

'I meant for me.' Amused. Garrett held out a jagged tooth. 'That was fight damage?'

'It's an assumption, but typically yes. Cats aren't made for grip and pull fights like dogs. I never told you about the xrays because there was nothing alarming, but he's had a few broken bones over time.'

The amusement faded so quickly Anders was wary, but Garrett's face smoothed just as quickly as the frown. 'I still owe that cunt a fist to the face when he gets back.'

'Doesn't take much more sophistication to keep a mining port entertained.' The wrong thing to say, from the diamond-drill stare Garrett turned on him. 'No opera or poetry readings in Lowtown. Beer, barbeques and blood sports all around.'

The stare continued unabated. Garrett broke first, looking away. 'All right. I fall asleep during movies. Especially foreign ones. Haven't tried opera, maybe next time I have insomnia I'll wake _you_ up at a ridiculous hour and you can serenade me with some culture.'

Anders could remember a time when everything had been this unpredictable. His heart seemed to have forgotten, veins alight with the thudding pulse. 'Doer, not a thinker. Nothing to be ashamed about, leaping in first and managing the consequences later. You sound like I used to be.'

'Really? My father--' Garrett paused. Pale enough naturally his cheeks flushed in broad, bright blotches, adolescent. 'My father was from here before we migrated out the first time. He didn't mind Lowtown. It was honest in its dishonesty. But he used to say you'd get more culture out of a tub of sunripe yoghurt than from Hightown, never mind the university.' A wistful smile. 'Fuck the university, was what he actually said. He was a blunt bastard. Funny, though.'

Anders wondered how to talk about it. What were you supposed to say to someone whose whole family died? 'More tea?'

'Thanks.' Walking to the kitchen gave time for Garrett's flush to fade, coaxing Fenris to ride his arm like a surfboard for the walk. Garrett set the kitchenette's bulb to swinging with his free hand, then backed onto the benchtop, heels leaving scuffmarks on the peeling paint.

Anders filled the kettle to boil. Awkward silence. He swiped at the ant trail on the bench and belatedly realised the sponge wasn't normally green.

'How come your family left Kirkwall the first time?'

An _I don't know_ sound, grand shoulders rolling. 'If not for the war, we wouldn't have come back. The city's falling apart. Economy dependent on finite resource, the government exploits profits off the mining industry for government folly and puts nothing back into sustainable infrastructure, and the streets are full of gangs. The departments snipe budgets from each other without even trying to hide it. Bribery is the only way to get things done here, and integrity is a dirty word because it means you're contrary to _progress_.' A mocking twist of mouth.

Either he'd actually thought about it, or it was trucker philosophy. Distil enough opinion and you could sound almost informed. 'But was it like that, what, twenty years ago, when your father would have left?'

Dryly, 'Thirty years. I wasn't born here. My mother's family didn't like my father.'

'The Amells.' The rich ones.

'That was a big part of why they left. Arranged marriages were in vogue, and she didn't like their choice. Maybe there were other reasons. My father used to say there was something in the water here that made people mad for blood. I almost believe him now.' A headshake, eyes inward. 'When I think about the amount of money I've poured into occ. health and safety on that mine. The geologists, the independent consultant reports, into training, and still more people die there than in car accidents across the Marches.'

'So the Financial Times reported.'

'The city's cursed.' Distant, not glum.

'I-- Really? You believe in things like that?' _And so is the Golden City blackened / With each step you take in my Hall. / Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. / You have brought Sin to Heaven / And doom upon all the world._ He always remembered the Canticles in the old tongue. The beliefs had no place in this world.

'I don't know.' The country boy lilt again. 'I have to believe in something. My life is unbelievable otherwise.' 

_Privilege of the young._ Anders kept the condescension to himself. And the more juvenile urge to trade unbelievable stories. Anders' brief association with the Chantry's Special Forces had convinced him to stop provoking the Maker for intercession. _Who do you think you are, sniveling for attention like that, Andraste's second coming? It was just a fucking cat!_

Anders breathed deeply. _Forget it. Years gone._ 'Kirkwall's not so bad.' The calm found in an unexpected silence, greater for the proportion of noise. City of contrasts. If you learned to look away, it was better than anything Anders could have expected, even without divine intercession. 'You get used to it.'

'You might. I keep thinking we never should have come back here.' Garrett trailed off.

'Did they catch the bastard? Who--'

 _Killed your mother?_ Well done, Anders. Fenris was no help for distraction, having decided to drink the offensive sponge water. Anders moved the sponge out of reach and set the tap to dripping, which Fenris steadily ignored.

'They prosecuted someone.' Neither flat nor hurting; Anders wondered what that control cost Garrett. 'This detective. She said the lab had a whole crew when they raided the basement, over a hundred people, about six women taken...taken apart. Everyone who wasn't shot in the firefight was prosecuted. Aveline -- that's the detective -- Oh, Anders, it was awful. Really bad. She came over, made me coffee and with an awful, horrible lot of brandy in it. Sat with me. Held my bloody hand. Really tried with the empathy stuff. I nearly threw her out. She meant well, but I just couldn't take it right then.'

As if admitting his mother's murder had hurt him would be the worst thing in the world. Anders' chest ached in sympathy.

Garrett put down his tea for Fenris to drink, an inch remaining. With both hands, he kneaded at Fenris' fur, his expression softening.

'Cats shouldn't drink tea.'

Garrett rolled his eyes. 'Like you're a vet or something.'

'Yeah, well--'

'How about you, Anders? Any family here?'

Surprised, Anders answered without thinking. 'No. No, I haven't seen them in years. Boarding schools, I told you. They're old country. Deep, old country. Electricity was a distant myth where I grew up, and regarded with intense suspicion.'

'You never visit? Want to visit?'

'Not particularly. We're not close.' He wanted to shut down the conversation. Or this would end up like it had the other night, Garrett leaving abruptly, Anders regretting every barb. 'My father had me prosecuted for arson.'

The eyebrows climbed. 'At twelve?'

'Ten, actually. The legal system was different there. Probably still is. And the insurances.' The bitterness was thick now. Impossible. Surely this was old enough not to matter. He remembered the day he'd given up hope, reading and learning about his own country in one heartbeat, and sundering the last hopeful threads with the next when he'd realised why his father let them take him. The detention centre, and later the schools, had never been intended to rehabilitate. 'Crime needs a criminal before it exists as a crime. Before the insurance companies will pay out. You know the stereotype.'

'Yea olde lynching country. Did you do it?'

'Burn down his barn? Yes. Maybe a little bit not by accident, but yes.'

'That is the most horrible thing I have ever heard.' Garrett didn't sound it. 'How much was it worth?'

'The barn?'

A shrug, insouciant. 'If your family's selling you to state-run labour camps for insurance money, at least you should know how much you were worth.'

Charming. Anders thought about it anyway, guessed the exchange rate. 'Five hundred sovereigns.'

Garrett's eyebrows climbed. 'If I ever need to put a bounty on your head, I'll know the starting mark.'

'Already got a bounty, thanks. Be sure to let me know if you see Interpol sniffing around. Maybe I can top the offer and buy your silence?'

'I like generous fugitives.' So magnanimous. 'Want to shake on it?'

Ridiculous. Garrett's hand was heavily calloused. Not from mine work, Anders suspected. What physical labour would an owner do?

'There's no one for you here? You mentioned a housemate.'

'Kristoff. We came to Kirkwall together, I had another friend here, the real vet. He sponsored me on a work visa.' Anders made a face. 'Lapsed two years. Kristoff was harder to sneak in.'

An expectant nod. Garrett poked Fenris idly until the cat creaked, plaintive.

'He was a patient, from Amaranthine. Soldier. Something bad happened -- we didn't really have a supply run, not after Denerim fell. He was left for dead. I had only lyrium to treat him with.'

Surprise. 'WSR had lyrium?' 

'No. Special Forces, standard issue.' Anders said it with an affected lisp; the specials irritated him. _Special religious sanction my fucking arse. Like we need another Exalted March._ Garrett didn't seem surprised; the military grapevine got at least half the secrets right. 'Supersoldiers or not, a cohort still managed to get themselves massacred in Amaranthine. My commander gave me their lyrium for the infirmary, she used to serve with ex-Special Forces and knew it was good for some things, injuries, forced speed healing. I just didn't know enough.'

'It sounds like you did the right thing.'

'You weren't there.'

'Your friend's alive, out of an occupied country, living with someone who cared enough to smuggle him out.'

'If you call a walking zombie alive. And it's a stretch to call a tenement living.' Anders sighed. 'I shouldn't say that. The place doesn't leak, and Kristoff has good days. Sometimes even two in a month.'

'You shouldn't feel responsible. I'd bet a week's wage a doctor wouldn't.'

'I'm not a doctor. I am responsible.'

'Listen.' Anders saw Garrett's swallow, the tongue flick across lips. 'My brother was Special Forces. He was an addict. That's how I suspected about Fenris, not just from the mine. I mean, we don't eat what we mine, but Carver... I know when I say, you _aren't_ responsible.'

'Your brother--' Dead, of course. Anders fumbled.

'Not that lyrium killed him. King hit in a Fereldan barfight by a monster bouncer.' Garrett put his hand over his heart. 'I tried to tell mother, it was how Carver wanted to go.'

'You...want another cup?'

'Yeah, thanks. Maybe one without cat vomit.'

The cupboards were bare, and the sponge truly was feral. Anders remembered a clean cup in his office and excused himself. The clinic felt different at night, sleeping dogs whuffing, a closed, special world. Traffic a distant drone, Anders could even hear crickets between the trains.

By the time he found the cup, Garrett was pacing around reception, mobile cupped to his ear. Fenris had already found his place inside the abominable lumberjacket, head poking out just above from the zipper. Garrett slapped the phone against his thigh to hang up. The conversation thread Anders caught had sounded cool, calm, no trace of the farmboy accent, but Garrett looked unhappy. His eyes flicked to the cup in Anders' hand.

'Sorry, I have to cut this short.'

'Girlfriend trouble?' Anders forced a grin. 'Not Merrill, is it?'

Garret looked confused, then bemused. 'Ex. Friend. Ex-girlfriend, now friend. Maybe ex-friend.' Suddenly angry, 'I'm just not in the bloody mood to be dealing with Bela's shit right now.'

Anders collected the pill packet from behind the counter. 'Here, the other vet did these for Fenris. They're antibiotics to make sure nothing nasty gets in through the gums, two pills a day, one in the morning and one at night.'

Garrett read the sticker. 'K. Thekla, hey?' Garrett grinned awkwardly. 'Hey, Anders. You know what I just realised? You're a vet...and a vet.'

'Yes, hilarious.' Anders tapped the packet. 'Karl tried the same line when he got me this job. The veteran part is less funny when you're beating off nightmares with a stick.'

'Probably doesn't count if you never demobbed.' A crooked smile. 'Do you want to get a beer or something sometime? Cat vomit free. Not that I don't love tea.'

'Sure. Free of charge on my end, too. Shit, I mean--'

Garrett touched the pocket on baggy jeans, where the phone had disappeared. 'My hours aren't usual, it's easier if I call. You don't have a mobile?'

'No.' Not with the bloody call rates. And they said the gangs were bad. 'I'm always here.' Or living in the flat directly across the tracks, but the hairy billionaire didn't need his suspicions confirmed.

'I thought I was bad. You need a life.'

'Thanks, Garrett. Really.'

Anders locked the clinic door behind him. He found a fresh sponge in Lirene's hidden stationery stockpile, and washed the cups twice, absentminded, before Karl came back after his dinner obligation as promised, bearing a stack of foreign movies and the promise of a decent night in.


	6. Chapter 6

The elderly keyboard rattled and the keys were slightly sticky, but Anders persisted. Scripting his conversations was an old habit. One he should stick to, or he wound up calling people at eight thirty at night without knowing why. 

_We have to talk. I don't want to alarm you. This is very important to the continued operation of the clinic._

He bit his thumbnail. Lirene would raise an eyebrow and sigh. He'd overheard her bitching to a friend over the phone already. 

_It's like he thrives on the melodrama._ He'd felt almost obligated to leap out and correct her with the frequent positive reports of his calming demeanour.

With animals, she'd say scathingly.

 _Lirene. It's about my lunches. I work for a pittance. Sometimes I think I pay you more than I earn a week. But I'm the specialist here_ \- all right, ignoring his actual illegitimacy not a good start - _I'm the only person here who knows how to stitch up a ripped gut or bite wound, or how to deal with a shattered tailbone. This means I work a ridiculous amount of overtime just to keep us afloat, and almost every day I work through lunch. So I'd really, really, really appreciate it immensely if you could add collecting my lunch to your administrative duties. I'll even give you the money for it. It's not derogatory or demeaning to your position to buy my lunches for me._

'Maybe if I was your mother,' Lirene said. 'Or your girlfriend.'

Anders leaped back from the screen and nearly headbutted Lirene in the nose. 'Oh hi.'

'Smooth.' She sighed. 'Look, Anders. Really. You like to imagine you're irreplaceable. But before you took up residence in the clinic, there were others. If you walked out tomorrow, there would be others. You need to get your life sorted first. If you can't even organise yourself enough to bring in lunch--'

'I am organised.'

'No, you organise the clinic shelves. One week in alphabetical order of supply, the next week in order of use. Organising is not being organised. Don't think I haven't noticed it's Karl who brings your groceries around every Friday after work. The man has a life of his own without needing to take care of yours as well.'

'I have Kristoff--' Last night had been a bad one. Anders could feel the waxy skin under his palms again, Kristoff ceding his arms with a shaking relief, needle sliding in too easily. They had been able to talk properly for a few hours before Kristoff passed out, bittersweet as the conversation was considering what had fuelled it. The substitutes were never enough.

An ineffable pity in Lirene's eyes. 'Anders, please. The man's a veteran. You need to get him out of your apartment and into a rehabilitation program. There's a beautiful home not even an hour's drive from here, right on a lake. My own brother's in there, and--' A tremor in her voice. 'Well, he's not exactly making progress, but he is getting fantastic care, and if there's one thing which makes me happy about being in this city instead of Ferelden, it's the free healthcare. It means you can be Kristoff's friend again, instead of needing to be his carer. I can give you their number.'

'Thanks for your concern, Lirene. I'd much prefer it if you'd just buy my lunch for me. Quick one-two out back for the privilege, is that it?'

Garrett called shortly after the conflagration died down, then came by as promised that evening, by which time the shiner had settled in for the long haul. Garrett quirked an eyebrow on sight. 'Is that why you didn't feel like heading out to the sports bar?'

Anders kept his attention on the floor, mop trailing dog hairs through the antiseptic. If he kept an even enough motion, he could flick the lot off once he got to the door. 'Wouldn't want anyone taking me for your bit of rough with this bloomer.' 

'Yeah. Anything we should be worried about?' Casual menace, as Garrett leaned against the counter. 

Anders almost tipped the bucket. _We?_ 'Not likely. I was a dick. Deserved it.'

'Such a deservingly dickish nature you have, true.' Almost suggestive. Bastard. 'I'll walk down and get us a litre of rum to have here. I do so love what you've done with neon and antiseptic, real dungeon chic.'

'No, I--' When he looked up, Garrett's face was so open. Hopeful. Anders caved. 'Only if you want something. I prefer not to drink too much these days. Maybe another night.' 

Momentarily pensive. 'Ah. Responsibilities. To be honest, I've gone off it a bit too. Beer and coffee man.'

'Getting old. Maybe you should try cider.'

'Speak for yourself! That blonde isn't hiding the whites, you know.'

'Meanwhile, I haven't seen a single flattering profile shot of you since they dug up your high school photo for the latest character bashing spreads of which the weeklies are _so_ fond. Gormless, Garrett. Really gormless.'

'Oh, Maker. They didn't, did they?' Garrett followed him outside when he went to empty the bucket down the drain.

'I bet all the boys loved that moustache. Very...suave.'

Maybe the lisp was pushing it too far. But Garrett just grinned back. 'A poor life decision which my sister never let me forget. Hey, how about tonight we get into the hard stuff instead of the rum. You want a black coffee, white...?'

Garrett already knew the way to the kitchen, beelining for the mugs Anders had brought over yesterday from his apartment, in the top cupboard where Lirene couldn't reach. Raiding the fridge, Anders discovered she had already eaten the last of the chocolate biscuits in vile retribution. A twinge of guilt. _Or maybe in hurt. Why did I say that to her? I should never speak again._ The milk was good, at least: Anders had long since learned keeping single serves of long life was the better option.

They made their respective cups side by side. Anders raised his eyebrows at the heaped spoons of coffee Garrett took this time, with just a conservative dollop of milk, barely enough to change the colour.

'Up late tonight?'

An unhappy face. 'I'm flying out again tomorrow morning. I slept this afternoon, just after I called you. It's easier just staying awake through the night, I need to get a cab at about two thirty in the morning just to make sure I get there for the flight. Five am. The bloody taxis in this city are even worse than the trains.'

'The shift work must suck. Hey, maybe that's to blame for the accident rate. Shitty taxis and bad public transport.'

'Might work as a theory, if the lads didn't have their own accommodation out at the Pit.' Pensive again. 'You were army, you know what it's like. You get so used to walking through a dream you can't sleep through a night uninterrupted anyway.'

They sipped their coffees and stood across from each other, awkwardly.

'Let's go sit out the back. It smells better for starters.'

'Lovely outlook,' Garrett noted. 'Trains and tenements.'

'I'll join you in mutual admiration in a minute. Just let me get the lights.'

The sun was setting, early moths clustering around the bulb jutting from the wall. Garrett skipped bits of rubble across the broken tarmac, his best shots reaching the broken cyclone fence along the tracks. The lights in the tenements across the way flicked off and on to no notable pattern. Anders checked on the two remaining dogs before locking the front door, then sat down next to Garrett. _Not too close._ Concrete cold through his trousers. Probably less cold through Garrett's jeans, he imagined. Depending on what underwear he had on. _Flannel, to match the shirts._

Anders picked out his apartment and kept an eye out for Kristoff's wandering silhouette. The lights never went off.

Garrett picked at the frayed knee of his jeans. 'I grew up in a place like that.' He nodded across the tracks. 'Eleven storeys. We grew tomatoes on the roof. When we first got to Kirkwall, it was like nothing changed. Make a couple of investments and bang. Rags to riches again. Mum was so happy. Then she had the house-help spray the tomatoes I was trying to grow down by the back fence. I think she thought they were pot. Do something once at fifteen, you never bloody live it down.'

Anders choked into his coffee. 'Must have been a big change, going from that to Hightown.'

'But you said it, didn't you? I can't complain. Not desperately struggling to survive leaves me plenty of time to think about everything going wrong. About losing it all.'

'I can't imagine--'

'Who ever does,' Garrett said, brisk. It was a shut down.

'No, I mean. You know I never got on with my family. I wrote for a while but never had anything back. Haven't wanted to see them for years. You had--' _Something I envy._ Garrett talked about them. Kept them alive. It made him feel lonely. 'It seems like you were all close.'

Garrett frowned at his coffee. When it came, it was an outburst.

'I never understood why my mother gave up all the wealth here in the first place. For my father. And a Fereldan tenement with corn and tomatoes on the bloody roof and mould on the ceiling underneath from the bad waterproofing. It was hard not to think she was happy when dad died. She could come back to all this--I loved my mother, mind. But when dad died, she started talking about Kirkwall as if it was the only answer. The war was just the last straw.'

'I bet she made all your lunches.'

Quizzical. 'Huh? Well. Until I left for army, yeah. That's what mothers do.'

Silence, and slurping of coffee.

'Well, now you've got Fenris.'

Garrett laughed mostly silently, shoulders heaving. 'That fucking cat! I swear he tried to kill me last night. If he wanted my pillow so bad, he could just bloody have it. Then he decides to shred the thing into a snowstorm. All silently, of course. I thought he'd killed my bathroom when I walked into it.'

'Bet it was satin and goosedown,' not quite without envy. _Lucky Fenris._

'Red satin,' Garrett said, stroking his beard, delightfully sinister. 'And _memory foam_.'

'Ah.' _What in the void is--_ 'Hangs on to all the nightmares, I suppose.'

Anders decided he liked it when Garrett laughed. Took years off the beard.

They talked some more about Merrill and the dogs, Anders' casual 'Think you'll see her again?' left unanswered. Then about Lirene and mothers, with Garrett acting suitably aghast at discovering the reason behind the bruise. 'Maker's bride, you didn't really say that, did you?' Eventually, Anders caught sight of Kristoff wavering past their flat's window to the bathroom, hunched and uneven, and said he had to leave.

It was ten pm. Garrett stood without objection, helped him wash up the mugs with a fresh sponge, and said goodbye. 

The next day started with his apology to Lirene, hastened along by the delivery of a heartbreaking crateful of wriggling, mangy puppies too frightened to wag their tails. It was midafternoon before Anders grabbed a moment to breathe. Standing on the back porch again, looking at where they had sat, he felt a strange, nameless strange guilt surge at the thought of Garrett roaming around his own empty mansion from ten until two thirty in the morning, bored and sleepless, until a taxi arrived with a silent driver to dump him at the airport.

Don't be daft, Anders told himself. Garrett had things to do. Like running his business. Share trading online. Writing emails to friends left back in Ferelden. Shagging blonde model types. Nothing to feel guilty about at all.

* * *

Two weeks later, three daylit phone calls, a couple of single sentence emails. Garrett brought kebabs, four longnecks of sweet, clear cider, and surprisingly a mountain of chocolate. 

'I thought you looked like a falafel kind of guy.' Garrett held out the wrap like offering a bunch of flowers. Hefty, heavy on substance and light on lettuce. No onions, bless him.

'Huh? Oh, what. I eat anything. Falafel is good.' Around a mouthful, sitting in the same spot on the step outside. 'Falafel is great!'

Garrett looked pleased. 'I got falafel too. Can't trust the meat in this city, even in Hightown. I swear they don't even cook that Orlesian stuff.'

But Garrett was tired, yawning more than speaking, nodding along as Anders rambled. And he was hungry, finishing his kebab before Anders got halfway through his and starting in on the blocks of chocolate as if each one was a single serve bar. The gluttony was ridiculously arousing, at least until Garrett got drunk, dozing against the wall, chocolate smeared on his lower lip. 

Trailing off, Anders studied him. Hollow cheeks, bags under the eyes. He felt acutely conscious of the haggardness after spending a fortnight coaxing syringefuls of milk into puppy bellies. He resisted the urge to rub Garrett's stomach, the rough hands folded loosely at the belt buckle, a tiny triangle of hairy white skin exposed where the shirt parted. 

'There was this photo last week, in the Times.'

Frowning, if somewhat resigned, Garrett opened his eyes. He leaned over and smacked Anders on the forehead with a sticky hand.   
The touch had no precedent, not even a shoulder to shoulder or the usual blokey nudge. Anders reeled.

'Just Isabela.'

'Isabela didn't look just anything.'

'She sometimes works for me. External consultant.'

'Insider trading?'

'That's going to be her burden to bear, if they prove she was. Religious ideology aside, I've never had any problems marketwise with the Arishok. The Qunari are ruthless in business, but all above board to date. I can't,' a deep breath, then Garrett inhaled the rest of his cider longneck. 'The company won't bear Isabela's indiscretions.'

'Girlfriend?'

Garrett said, 'Used to be. Sometimes. Like I said, ex. Maybe ex everything. Do you think I'm in a position to feel hurt? Business is business. Like she said, nothing personal, Hawke.'

Anders took slightly too big a mouthful of falafel.

Garrett made a disgusted sound. 'Can we talk about something else? I've been talking to my lawyers about Bela for two weeks. I'm just so sick of people...'

A hasty swallow. 'What, in general?'

'Sick of people fucking me around. You're not planning on fucking me around, are you? Bearing mysterious exorbitant bills, arriving in the dead of night, please see attachment for details of emotional blackmail?'

'Uh, I don't think so. No fucking. Around, I mean. No fucking, I have no desire to blackmail you emotionally or otherwise at this point in time. You brought the food and drink, after all.'

'So I did. And a damned fine mouthful it is.'

'Right. Yes. Topic change. Did you really buy every copy of your biography off that guy?'

Garrett's frown shifted into something less dangerous, amused. 'Varric? Yeah.'

'On first name terms, I see?'

'Well, I did make our Master Tethras rich. And famous. Well, more famous, really. We get together every couple of months and I give him a pile of bullshit about the socialites for his blog. I think he's a fanboy.'

'Of what? Your particular literary arc?'

'My what? It's the beard. He couldn't grow one if he tried.'

'I'm almost drunk enough that makes perfect sense.'

'You could grow a beard,' Garrett said wistfully. 'I can tell by the stubble.'

'It's not pretty. People start giving me money and pity every time I take a seat at a bus stop. You know, Garrett, I looked. I googled, I called libraries, I called the publisher. Couldn't find a single copy of it anywhere.'

'Should have tried ebay.' Garrett sighed lustily. 'I love ebay.'

'I hate ebay. All that time for what, junk? How many pairs of trousers that don't fit do you need?'

'That's your problem there, buying clothing. What you want to look for is tools and equipment. Especially if it's broken. Get it home for a pittance, learn the skills necessary to fix it up, sell it off at weekend markets for double the expenditure, and with a markup for your labour cost.'

Anders thought about the calloused palms. The vague hint of grease always lining the nails, the leather jacket, the battered bike. The paintball gun in a garage he'd probably never see, but which he'd bet Garrett spent more time in than the satin-lined sheets of his bed.

'You do realise you're rich, Gare? Rich enough to have called a publishing company and pre-ordered two runs worth of every copy of a single book pre-release?'

'Now I'm rich.' Garrett shrugged. 'Before Kirkwall, before the army, that's what we used to do. Scavenge, repair, resell. My brother and me and Bethy. She was great with the fine work. Computers and lamps and such. Dad taught her.'

'Maker, it's just so--arrogant, though. Don't you think? I mean buying off those books, not you and your brother--'

'Ah, you never met Carver! He was pretty arrogant. I, on the other hand, am a paragon of humility. Beth always told me so. Right before patting me on head. D'you think she was being patronising?'

'What was so bad about the biography?'

'It wasn't bad,' Garrett said, suddenly curt. 'Not at all.' 

Anders could see how that might be a problem for someone so intent on avoiding sympathy. He reached for a cider which proved already drunk.

They finished in a not-unpleasant silence, by which time the puppies were clamouring for their next feed and Garrett joined in, a lap full of greyhounds intent on chasing the last lick of kebab juice from between his fingers.


	7. Chapter 7

'I was thinking about going on holiday for a few months. I've an invite to some stupid party in Orlais. A good excuse to get out of Kirkwall for a while.'

Anders knew he looked surprised and tried to cover it, but he had already lowered his cards. Enough that Garrett took a glimpse at them and sighed heavily. _Shit._ He was in what Anders had learned was his ruthless mood, humour turned scathing, everything an insult. Even Anders' insistence on losing. 

'What about the company?'

'What about it? You don't really think I handle the day to day, do you? What do I know about running a business, I was bloody infantry. I left school when I was eleven, we were on the move too much.'

'Really? I mean--' What were you supposed to say to that. _I never would have known you were an illiterate dropout_. How rude could you get? _Well, now you showed them, Gare, well done._

'Just because you had the full benefit of a paid education halfway through a medical degree. Even if it was one you got unwillingly. Don't mind me, I eat my culture with a spoon.' Mild mocking at reading Anders so easily. Garrett raised his eyebrows. 'You look like I'd just said I was going to the moon. Don't you ever go on holiday?'

'I can't remember the last time.'

'What would happen to the clinic, if you did?' Garrett let his gaze drop, picking at his nails. Must have a bad hand. A really bad hand. He never had a tell Anders could usually pick, unless the nailpicking was faking it. Anders scowled at his diminished chips. Gambling with chocolate buttons was a bad idea.

'Urgent medical cases could be redirected to a legal clinic, I suppose, but the track owners wouldn't be happy with me.' Or Karl, if Anders let this link in the semi legal chain fall apart. 'This clinic operates on their sufferance. Honestly, the rehab jobs Merrill can deal with for a while. If Fenris has a relapse for some reason, she'll be here, if that's what you're worried about.'

'After what he did to her curtains? And the rest of her waiting room? Not a chance. She'd probably pin him down and piss on him in vengeance.'

The pizza had been from a Hightown address, still slightly warm after Garret's drive down, and overloaded with maple glazed chicken. Anders blamed the added sugar on his laugh. 'Sorry. Just picturing it. I thought you paid her out?'

'Money doesn't fix everything, Anders.'

Ridiculous, the way his name on this man's lips made him feel warm. It had been a long time since he'd had a best friend who wasn't Karl.

'Lirene's been telling me to get my life in order. Can't live from bag to bag forever, WSR training aside. Maybe a holiday would make sense. Not that I have any money for it.' Breathed. 'You going with anyone?'

'Probably Isabela.'

'What? Even after--'

'Well, yeah. We are friends. We made up.'

'Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to tell you how to run your life. But if it were me that someone had shafted over like that, I wouldn't be going on a holiday with them.'

'That is because you,' a flash of storm blue eyes, 'are someone who holds grudges. For. Ever.'

'I do not!'

'And when was the last time you spoke to your family?'

'That's different.'

'No, it's not.' Garrett shrugged. 'Forget it. I like fixing broken things. If you were to go on holiday, anyone special you'd want to take along?'

The friendly warmth of the almost argument curdled. Anders took a breath. Felt an old fear.

He hadn't quite pinned Garrett down. The man seemed to like his company. Had no idea of the odd, occasional bursts of desire he provoked, but Anders wasn't a teen, didn't have to act on everything. There were a lot of people in the world, each attractive in their own way. Everything so far had just suggested Garrett liked talking with someone from Ferelden, some vague sense of comradely duty, who didn't respect the artificial boundaries set up by his Hightown reputation. Maybe a bit of nostalgia for the Darktown setting reminding him of his family, but nothing more. And Anders could remember the biting, bitter scorn when Garrett had mocked his neighbour's attractive _boyfriend_.

But how closely could you get to know someone if always talking around the point?

'Yeah. You remember Karl? He did the anaesthetic for Fenris.'

'He sponsored your visa.'

'We're sort of--' Couldn't do it, in the end. 'Not ex.'

But Garrett just nodded. The relief was embarrassing. Shameful. 'Is it complicated?'

'It's exactly the opposite of complicated.'

'So is it serious?'

'Last time we...' Were they at this stage yet? Leap the bisexual barrier, start talking about wanking? Anders made an obscure motion of his hand, then stared at it and stopped, hoping Garrett hadn't seen. _What was that even supposed to be? An elephant's dick?_ 'I wound up laughing myself sick. Felt like being fondled by, not even a brother. A kid sister or something. Look, I don't know. On again, off again. Off for a while now, maybe never on again. I'm not the serious type, you know? Am I babbling?'

'Monologuing, I thought. Riveting.'

'And you say you're uncultured.'

They grinned at each other. Happy, Anders absently ate his next bid, realising only when Garrett's grin turned vicious.

'I did pick Kirkwall to come because Karl was here. Easier setting up in a town when you've a contact you can trust. I've been relying on him a lot. This thing with Kristoff--Karl probably deserves a holiday as much as I do.'

A mocking lift of brows. 'You were wild. But everyone gets old. Settles down.'

'Don't know if I'm ready for settling down just yet. It's been, what is it now, just over three years? Apart from school, medical school, I haven't stayed anywhere longer than four years. If I make that here, I'll call it a record. I've lived in more apartments than years I've been alive.'

'Forty nine apartments? Wow!'

'Fuck you,' they were both laughing.

'So you and Kristoff...'

'Maker, no!' It was a yelp. 'No no no. He's like.' 

But what was it like? A one man crusade. Feeling like he could stand up against against all the silence,the conspiracy of WSR, of the Specials, of a government that never told them the truth about the war, the severity, the surrender. A government and a religion which permitted and endorsed what his family made of him. When Kristoff had been coherent, there had been a link, something almost fraternal, an ideology which Anders could almost embrace, a certain peace Kristoff carried with his belief in the Maker, in Andraste, an interpretation of the Chant of Light which didn't seem so cruel. If Anders' hadn't been so suspicious of everything ideological. 

'It's different with Kristoff, like a responsibility. He was a comrade, and it was my inexperience which destroyed him. I know you don't believe it, but I am responsible. I tried to bring him in under a lie.' Because Anders hadn't wanted to reveal his own name, which was a different story. 'I don't know if there's even a legitimate way to get him into government care any more.' Almost bitterly, 'In that first year in Kirkwall, you'd remember. Refugees everywhere. There was nothing for us. Everyone was in denial that anything had even happened, at Kinloch, or at Amaranthine. The commanders disappeared, the splinter groups assumed control...getting out of Amaranthine was the only clear path to take. Only to find the rest of the world was in denial Ferelden even existed. Now, of course, it's all public apologies and acknowledgements, but then...' 

'Who's taking care of Kristoff while you're on your imaginary holiday?' Garrett gestured with his juice bottle at the tenements across the ruined earth.

He might as well. 'Promise you won't tell.'

Garrett looked at him over the lip of the bottle. 'Pinky swear.'

'Are you serious?'

The offered little finger didn't waver.

Anders hooked his through it, wondering again at the roughness. Maybe a weightlifter? He hadn't seen Garrett without a bulky jacket yet. Maybe, from the shoulders. 'You're insane. I should be reporting you to some authority.'

'Already tried. They make more money off my income tax than by putting me away.' Garrett released him and kissed the little finger, offering a salutation to Andraste. 'Pinky sworn to silence, may demons take my tongue if I tell.'

'All right. I have a friend--'

'Congratulations!'

'He-- Garrett, please. He's really a friend of a friend, someone I knew in Amaranthine. A forger. You sure I can trust you with this?' He must be high on the ginger beers Garrett brought along with the juice. He squinted at the label. Maybe they were alcoholic.

'Anders,' Garrett sighed heavily, 'we just pinky swore. Please don't question my trust.'

'This friend helped me with false passports for Kristoff and I. More than once. I'm getting him to try help make Kristoff legitimately alive again, so we can put him into the care centre over,' a general handwave. Anders had tried to drive past the place with Karl on a clinic lowday, and couldn't feel anything but guilt looking at the solid front wall. 'I need to do this,' Anders told Garrett, in Karl's words. 'Kristoff deserves proper care. Not selfish old me. He's...getting a little violent these days, too. Frustrated at how diminished he is. He used to be a real warrior type in the WSR, you know? Defending whole villages single handed, independent missions, everything. A real ranger. Now he can't even--' A pause for another handful of chocolate, sugar burning his throat. 'Reckons he can't stand me any more, anyway. And maybe you're right. It's wearing me down, taking responsibility for...everything. It wasn't me alone, you know? It was a whole laboratory, a whole government, a whole fucking cover-up. But maybe I'm just weak.'

'I don't think you're selfish.' Garrett stared at his hands. The flicker of a smile. 'Well. Not especially selfish. I know what it feels like, thinking you need to take responsibility for all of it. Sometimes it just doesn't work that way. Doing it only makes you feel better instead of actually addressing the problem.' Juice finished, Garrett swigged the beer.

'But that's all best case. If Zev's little fraud falls through, I'll be stuck here with Kristoff, and holidays go hang.'

'How much do you trust your forger?'

'I don't think Zev's into pinky swears, if that's what you mean.'

'Are you willing to accept my help? Money can open some of these doors.'

'I will not take your money, Garrett.' Too harsh. His attempt at moderation stuttered. 'Except for services rendered. I mean. Fenris, yeah. And your dog, if he ever needs anything.'

'I didn't meant to offend. It's more, I know some people. The detective, for example, Aveline. And believe it or not, I know the city's Viscount. Marlie has the worst parties, but I think he's a good sort. We might get Kristoff into the right hands without needing to bring you or your fraudster into it all. There must have been a lot of MIA from Amaranthine.'

'Thanks, but I'd like to try this my way first.'

'All right. Not a problem.' Garrett seemed cross.

'I don't want to seem ungrateful, I'm just used to--'

Being alone. Anders fidgeted with a limp slice of pickle on the pizza box, lifting cardboard with it.

'Ok. You let me know if you want the help.'

'I appreciate it. Really. And you enjoy yourself. Try not to incite any scandals while you're gone.'

* * *

The raised voices carried from reception all the way out the back, as Anders rushed to unlock the rear door, glancing at the clock in bemusement on his way through. None of the usual ornery gangsters were up this early, kennel owners raging about theft or pit lords and their right to destroy property. Anders was frowning fiercely when he pushed into the foyer, heart hammering and a broomstick minus broomhead held close across his chest, prepared to handle any number of irate biker types hunting the drugs he rarely kept at the clinic.

What he found was a woman in short shorts, high boots and a white linen dress short enough to need the shorts, holding a significantly sized clutchbag. 

Lirene huffed. 'She says she'll only speak to you.'

The name swam at Anders out of a newspaper's typeset. 'Isabela?'

The smile dazzled against dark skin. 'I knew you'd recognise me. Our mutual friend is in dire need of your healing hands.' Isabela presented her handbag, which heaved.

'Let's go into two.' The broomstick fell over when he tried to prop it against the reception desk, Lirene sighing at him.

Isabela's bag contained a lot of shed fur and blood. Fenris had a serious tear in one ear, the claws on his front paws shredded to the quick. Running, climbing, digging? The irregularity in his heartbeat was painfully pronounced, and the usual techniques weren't calming him. Anders paused to mop up his scratches with antiseptic, Fenris immediately fleeing into the opposite corner of the exam room, trembling.  
'Where's Garrett? He's a knack for handling the cat in moods like this.'

Isabela, braver than Anders would have thought, crouched and reached out to the cat. Fenris looked at the hand suspiciously and ghosted to the other side of the room. All those bangles chiming, Anders felt the same. 'In hospital.' 

'Is he okay?' It was an automatic response.

'I wouldn't know. I left while they were checking him in.'

'What happened?'

'Fenris tried to go home. Goes missing for three days, and on the third the old man comes back from wherever he's been, and Hawke starts to stress. He does his usual, jumps the back fence to search for the cat, but unfortunately for him, the old man's bodyguard was in the sauna next to the pool. Sees him strolling across the yard hissing for Fenris and takes critical exception to the trespass. Put Hawke in hospital.' A quick grin over her shoulder. 'Literally.' 

'That's assault. Is Garrett pressing charges?'

'For what? He jumped someone's fence and stole his cat. Repeatedly. That's trepassing, and I should know.'

'All your years as an international cat smuggler, I suspect. Nice sideline from commodities crime.'

'Precious thinks he has claws!' Isabela looked familiar grinning a little dangerously like that. Too many insouciant pictures of her in the papers. 'Our Danarius was a trainer some decades ago. He'd made his fortune duelling in Minrathous, sat back on his laurels, opened a few gyms, sponsored a few fighters, and in his mature years decides he's going in for the specialist scene and takes up training again. Outliers, the unlikely, the weighted matches. I would guess our Leto's his latest imported bantam. Have you ever watched a featherweight pull apart a guy Hawke's size?'

'I don't like blood sports.'

'It was an education. The old man certainly looked well informed before he deigned to call a stop.'

The tone added what innuendo couldn't, which was more than Anders expected. 'That's...disgusting.' 

Tattooed lids widened in mock innocence. 'What is? Fighting?' A handwave, surprisingly short nails. 'Old greyface retires to relieve himself of his surplus load of information, but not before he orders Leto to stop, to "apologise profusely to the good man, pet",' her lazy affectation was all Tevinter, 'then Leto drives us to the hospital for afters. He's struggling to fill out Hawke's hospital form and looking like he'd prefer to beat a brick to death with his head, and Hawke sends me back for this little one and gives me your address, and makes me swear on my own grave I'm not leaving until Fenris is in your hands.'

'Adding breaking and entering to trespass and assault.' 

'Why live unless it's dangerously?' Faint pity when she glanced at Fenris. 'He opened the cage, clever thing, but the dungeon's deadbolt defeated him. It was horrendous down there, a real test lab. I'm tempted to go back with a few canisters of explosives.'

'And Lirene accuses me of melodrama.' Anders looked at Fenris and knew. What made him marvel was the instinct that kept the cat fighting to get away from the trainer again, despite the lyrium lure. 

Then again, he doubted Danarius would let a prize fighting cat sleep in his bed and shred his pillows for entertainment. Treat them cruel, keep them hungry. Anders knew how fighting kennels worked. Maybe Fenris' longing wasn't so strange. 

The thought initiated a powerful, unbelievable loneliness. 

Distantly, he thanked Isabela for bringing Fenris in and asked her to leave. For simplicity's sake. The near isolation almost worked, Anders grovelling on his belly to get close enough to grab Fenris again and clean and patch his wounds, wishing for Garrett's big hands to hold the cat immobile. He took a blood sample with only one vengeful bite in return, and put Fenris into his usual dogbox. The cat went to the stale blankets almost happily. If he was coming off the lyrium again, Anders imagined the familiarity would be a boon.

Having reached a truce with Lirene, Isabela was draped over the counter, both she and Lirene eyeing him curiously. 

'I never knew you were in Denerim,' Lirene accused him. 'I'm from Denerim. Why did you never tell me?'

'What?' Anders fumbled with the antiseptic, wishing one of them would offer to help. 'Why, so we could reminisce over starch soup and gassy ale? You know how much I love sentiment. I was only there for three weeks.' Before the guard hauled him away again, back to the bells and the schedules, the whistles and barred doors. Detention centres then boarding schools then jails and then Amaranthine's wretched, gutted barracks. 

For some reason it all felt close again, too close, always being watched. Better than being alone. _No, it wasn't. They tried to convince you of that, but it wasn't._ A deep breath, the tail end of which shuddered unexpectedly.

'Three exceptionally well lived weeks.' Isabela gave him that dangerous grin again.

Aghast, Anders fumbled the antiseptic bottle. 'Maker, it's _you_.'

'There we go! I told you he'd recognise me properly, sooner or later.'

'A brothel, Anders,' Lirene's disapproval dripped. 'A Denerim brothel!'

'Healthcare is healthcare, even illegitimately dispensed to prostitutes. Need is need. And I need a bloody coffee.' 

'Thanks,' Isabela said. 'Mine's black, two sugars. Light on the blood.'

Whether it was the adrenaline from psyching himself up to fight, extended by the shock of Isabela's revelation and Fenris' pitiable state, the emotion ambushed him halfway through his first cup. Tangled emotion, so much he didn't know if he was angry or concerned, Anders felt a moment of alarm at the intensity, then positively exploded when it hit him while Isabela was still cooing over the puppies, ankle deep in their newspaper cage. 

'What was he thinking! He could have been killed!' 

He felt a vein throb in the centre of his forehead. Strove for control. _No, no control. I want to hit something!_

Isabela arched an eyebrow. 'That's going a bit far, don't you think? Even in Kirkwall.'

But she wouldn't know about the lyrium. Only an arrogant idiot would keep lyrium where a casual thief could find it, even in a basement laboratory dungeon. Because if Danarius so much as suspected Garrett knew about the drug, who knew how far he'd go to keep it quiet. But he wouldn't know, Anders thought desperately. Because he'd been away, and might never have known his fighting cat was missing and in an illegal vet's care all this time. 

Which brought his thoughts back to this Leto. 

Imported bantam, Isabela called him. Another refugee using Kirkwall's fighting rings to fight out of poverty. Poor kid must have been shitting bricks at losing his boss's cat. Probably thanked every god who existed when Fenris came back on his own, locking him back into the cell and pretending he'd never gone--  
Anders shook his head furiously, dizzy. He refused to feel sympathy for someone who just put his-- _Garrett_ in hospital. 

Isabela coughed delicately. 'You often have conversations with yourself?'

'What's it to you?'

She put down a squirming puppy. 'Oh, nothing. Just be careful if it escalates to arguing.' 

Anders rubbed his eyes until they hurt. He could barely remember Isabela from Denerim. Nostalgia didn't help when you moved so often. He barely remembered Denerim, just another city razed in the war. Isabela had a boat, had enjoyed the dockside bar below where he took a short stay apartment for a pittance, mostly because the other rooms were let by the hour

Isabela had broken in to a stranger's house for a cat, because Garrett asked her. 

Garrett wanted to take her on a holiday. Forgave her for nearly ruining what he was trying to build. Slept with her. Must be sleeping with her.

And Isabela had just stood back and watched him fight a losing battle. 

Anders would have leaped in to help.

Then he could _see_ it stark as snow, Garrett facing down a skilled opponent, oozing that air of scorn and irritation which had become as familiar as the sound of his bike. And losing. In all their movie watching, Karl had managed to sneak in a few of Kirkwall's blood and bluster types, made for gangster honour and money laundering. Leto would have forced Garrett to dig his own grave, a faceless Danarius asking him curiously what he wanted with Fenris, right before placing the mouth of a gun against the pulse flicking at that pale brow. 

Garrett with blood from the fight smeared across his face, clotting into the beard. _Maybe I really like cats. Cats and children. I'm a likeable man._

Bang.

Maker! _Garrett._ Anders' heart raced again, as if he'd heard the gun in his ear again. This, for a fight already hours over. He was being ridiculous. The knowledge did nothing to calm him. People often told him he was a fool.

Breath coming short and sharp. Don't think about Amaranthine. Maker, he'd got through it by mocking everything, until Surana had been forced to separate him from the others to spare his own skin. _Friendly fire, Anders. They can't trust you, not after what they saw you do to Rylock._ He was not made for war.

\--and he was working himself into a state. Hadn't done this in years. _Don't think about it._ Distance. Garrett was fine. Garrett wasn't another Kristoff, dying in his arms again and again. Garrett was well enough to talk to Isabela, who looked entirely unconcerned for her boyfriend's life. Anders shouldn't be feeling guilty about this at all. Garrett was not dying.

The dread tightening around his chest called it a lie. _He's dying. He's dying, and you'll never see him again._

'Uh oh. It looks like it's escalating. You want to sit down?' Isabela went for a chair.

His voice came strangled. 'A bloody cat! I would have told him to just let the cat go! It's not worth--'

The sudden taste of sick in his throat. Anders felt appalled at himself, looking at the half of the coffee he hadn't drunk.

'I need to call him. He's all right, isn't he?'

Isabela set the chair behind him and pushed him down gently. 'He'd like to hear from you, but not just now. Hospitals take forever. He kept fainting every time he moved his arm.'

She was leaning over him. Anders looked up and unavoidably into her cleavage. The dread tightened again, a confused pulse. Garrett was straight. _Look at Isabela._ Garrett was straighter than a ruler. So he'd moved past the idea of Anders having a boyfriend without even a hitch of his shoulders, because it didn't matter. They were friends. Garrett was a patronising rich bastard slumming his late nights in a dirty clinic just for laughs. Probably joked about it amongst the socialite set, _some of my best friends live in Darktown!_ There had been no signs of taking it further than that, ever, no signs from Garrett, not even if Anders had been purposefully hunting for them. What was this protectiveness, this fear? 

All tangled with some obscure lust. 

Not a warm flicker of appreciation at the physical, which could be acknowledged for what it was, humanity, and set aside. This was in his pulse, bashing at the insides of his skull. He would crack into pieces. It would show through his skin. It had to show. His blood was boiling. If he touched Garrett, they'd both go up in smoke. Conflagration. Burned up by his lusting.

_Oh, no. Oh, please Maker, no. Not him! Not Garrett!_

Now Lirene was standing next to Isabela, concerned. Why were they showing him their cleavage? Didn't they know what they were doing? Mocking him, with something he would never want again!

'Anders. What's wrong?'

Thin, reedy. 'A man just got put into hospital by a gangster's boyfriend to spare the life of a feral cat.'

A muffled laugh from Isabela. 'Varric needs your help with his summaries.' 

Anders appealed to Lirene instead, the embodiment of stability in a world stretched at the edges. 'Do you think I should call him?

'Garrett Hawke? About his cat?'

But Lirene had always gone home by the time Garrett came with his evening bounty. She didn't know. If he could lie to her, convince her, then he could lie to Garrett, and everything would be all right. 

'He's a friend,' Anders said. Cringed at his own desperation. 

'Hawke had an accident,' Isabela said. 'He's in hospital.'

Lirene's expression shifted, a sudden understanding, sympathy. She was all efficiency then. The coffee went down the small sink in the corner. She made him breathe with her, as stupid as he felt, spitting curses about not being pregnant just to see the anger flicker in her eyes. Anything except pity. _Hate me._ Hate was easier, and could be fought against. But Lirene was persistent, and he took long and deep breaths until the anxiety suddenly eased. 

When his hands stopped shaking Lirene ushered Isabela into the reception, giving him the time and space for his mind to empty and his heart to slow. Isabela had been rubbing his back too, warm and casual for a near-stranger. A comfort which he hadn't even noticed until she stopped.

Their voices through the wall. 'He was in Amaranthine. WSR.'

Anders sneered at his knees; as if that explained every overreaction. He had hoped Lirene, at least, would have just named him an idiot.

'Really?' Isabela sounded surprised. 'In Denerim, he never seemed-- Was he at the keep or the Amaranthine city?'

'Vigil's Keep.'

'But it fell, I heard. A massacre.' A pause. 'Oh, I see.'

_No, you fucking don't._

Anders covered his mouth and breathed through his nose, hard, until the sound of his breath obscured everything.

While Lirene and Isabela talked, Anders made his way to the phone in his office. The hospital's receptionist took his name and message but wouldn't put him through. 

'Mr Hawke is in with the doctor for his exam.' 

'Is he staying overnight?' Visiting would be an awful idea. Confronted with the dry, distracted voice of the receptionist, hospital noises filtering through, the momentary heat and insanity was distant enough his lust seemed as ridiculous as his belief that Garrett was dead. 

'No idea yet. They're doing an x ray.'

A flash of light behind his eyes. Nothing to be worried about. Anders went and packed Fenris' blood to send off to Karl's fully equipped lab, checked Fenris' water and general unhappiness, then decided he really needed breakfast.


	8. Chapter 8

'I thought we might try a decent teriyaki for a change.' The boxes were printed with the logo of a Hightown address, the handles actual wicker, the chopsticks not the sort you had to snap apart before you could use them. 'I hope you're hungry. What am I saying, you're always hungry.'

Garrett's arm was in a cast but not a sling, to the elbow but not beyond. After a week of vacillating, Anders had rung him yesterday to let him know Fenris was okay to come home, and from the background sounds Garrett had been having a party in his house. Anders had also watched through the sagging blinds of his office, the sleek gunmetal of the car dropping him off, a lean, fit looking driver in a tailored suit (and black runners, which was just wrong) getting out to open Garrett's door for him. He was no one Anders knew. 

Not that Anders knew anything about Garrett except what Garrett told him. 

Garrett sat on the benchtop, Anders leaning against the wall, while Fenris steadily claimed each teriyaki box with his cheek, purring expectantly. 

'How's the arm?' Anders took his box before Fenris could rub it, then opened it and handed it to Garrett regardless.

'I've had worse. Broke three ribs my first month on the mine.'

'So much for your vaunted occ health and safety. How did you manage that?'

'Killing dragons.'

'Oh. Right.'

'It's the lyrium,' Garrett said seriously. 'It attracts them.'

They'd spent ages trying to call each other's bluffs before, when Garrett had made fun of his total incapability at cards. Anders experienced a solid three heartbeats of uncertainty. _If there was ever a man who could make me believe in dragons..._

A grin. 'It was a runaway digger, if you simply have to hear the boring story. Brakes on those things are heavy duty, but they still wear. Anyway, it would have been fine, it was going slow enough the driver just jogged up to it and climbed in the cabin, but it picked up a steel column underneath, in exactly the wrong spot, and the steering column locked. None of us knew that, of course, So there's four of us in the cab trying to force the wheel to get the truck off the rank before it hit anything critical. It was all going ok until we just,' a hand gesture, 'caught the second pylon, left flank. Whole thing snapped. Threw me out of the cabin. Now, that hurt more than this.' A contemplative expression. 'That's every day out there, Anders. A series of mildly unfortunate events all occurring on top of each other.'

Anders didn't want to think about it. 'You seem cheerful enough. Made a new best friend, huh?'

'Because Leto dropped me off here? Uh. He's...ok, he's a surly bastard once you get him around a couple of drinks and the bodyguard face cracks. But that's no surprise, considering. Just your type, I would have thought. Repressed and angry.' He was grinning madly like Anders should have joined in. Fading and faltering when he didn't. Uncertainty looked wrong on Garrett, made him look young and vulnerable, what with with the bruises and the dark pinchpoint across the bridge of his nose. 

'Yeah, well. Don't try to set us up or anything.'

An apologetic shrug. 'He put me down so quick I didn't feel it until we were half way to the hospital. He was impressive.' Trying to eat with his broken arm, Garrett spilled noodles into his lap, Fenris leaping to the feast.

'There's something fucking wrong with this place. What, he's another thug killing his way through the cages? And you think this is impressive? Or are you aiming to rescue him, too? Why do you risk everything because of someone else's choices?'

Garrett stared. 'What's wrong with you? You're acting like it was your mother's arm that he broke.' A sneer. 'Wait, I forgot. You couldn't give a shit about anyone but yourself.'

Anders set aside the box, suddenly tasteless. Too expensive, that's what it was. No gritty substance.

'Well, I see he hit you hard enough to give you a personality transplant.'

Garrett stood abruptly. 'Thanks for lunch, and everything.' A tight, paced circle, flicking noodles off his lap while Fenris backed away, wary. 'Fucking Maker, Anders! So I got bored with feeling like the world was out to get me, all right? All that self pity...and this bastard was just so deliberately out to get me in such a perfectly uncomplicated way, it put things in perspective! It was a good fight, and I lost, no permanent damage...and it was this perfect difference between circumstantial hurt and actually being targeted for something I'd done wrong. It wasn't some abstract universe out to get me, it was one man. I felt like I had control again, for one fucking moment! Even losing--' A brisk headshake, the near-shout lowering. 'Leto's had lyrium too. Injects. Even my brother never injected. He competes, and Danarius never told him what lyrium does--used the cat as an example of how much lyrium improves performance, and because it's not even acknowledged as a drug they won't test for it in the cage fights. It took a long time before Leto was even listening to me when I told him what it does--'

'Right, so it is another rescue mission. Glad to know. But I don't think he'll fit too well in one of my dog cages when he goes through his withdrawal.'

A disgusted look, which shrivelled Anders' stomach. 'Why did I think you would care? I'll save it for Aveline.'

'Now you're doing a cop's job? City guard in your sights, because it's not enough that you save cats  
and pretty fuckboys from their evil owners.'

A pause. Then Garrett suddenly swung with his good arm, the abandoned box scattering its contents across the benchtop. 'What _happened_ to you? Someone raid your apartment this morning? Or are you pissed off about having to keep Fenris for a week? I bet he was noisy. Interrupted your beauty sleep and all.' He scrabbled at his jeans-and since when did Garrett wear jeans that tight? A thin, battered wallet. His cheeks flushed in ugly blotches. 'I'll pay Lirene on my way out.'

He stood there for a very awkward moment, then Anders realised Garrett couldn't pick up Fenris with the broken arm and hold on to the wallet at the same time. Otherwise a brilliant statement.

Anders could feel manic laughter building. This was so much better than awkward. _Better than bursting into flames of lust._

'I'm sorry. I've been worried. Garrett. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I told you, I'm a dick. Don't go. Finish eating, at least. There's another box.'

Garrett sat down after a brief hesitation. 'It's not Kristoff, is it?'

'What? No, I was worried about _you_. I was so used to you coming around.' _I was the only one you relaxed around. I was so sure of that. But you have so many friends. You make them so easily._

'I'm sorry you were worried.' 

Now it was awkward. 

A storm-blue glance, and Garrett rubbed his beard, rueful. 'I can't help but feel like I should have got in at least one blow, right? I mean, if he's a boxer, he shouldn't look or move so much like a sodding ballet dancer.'

The dark tone was reassuring. Anders settled himself again and reached for his box. Groped for a topic. What did they talk about before? _It's only been two weeks._ 'Funny you mentioned Kristoff. There's a new register online for the MIAs of Amaranthine. Kristoff discovered it on one of his better days.' Anders made a face, too aware of Garrett watching him warily from under the fringe. _Is he going to be wondering forever when I'm going to snap like that again?_ 'We had a difficult conversation. He can't work out if he wants to register or not. The government declared an amnesty, no questions or charges, they're so desperate to rebuild a standing military again. If he registers, then we don't have to try to fake anything through Zev.'

'Why wouldn't he want to?'

'His wife. A dead husband is one thing, the grief is intense, then you move on. But Kristoff's...very aware he's not going to be that man for the rest of his life. He doesn't know if he wants to put that strain on Aura. Dead husband, grief, moving on, or forever living with a broken person.'

'Instead Kristoff puts that burden on you? Just because you were there, and you suffer a guilty conscience--'

'I wanted to help him. I still do want to help him. It's been three years already, why rush him into this decision? He's lucky if he can get two hours of thinking straight. When he's ready, I'm ready.'

A sullen nod. 'Have you thought about registering?'

It took Anders a moment to puzzle out that Garrett meant for himself. His heart skipped a beat. 'I'm better off as it is.'

'Your family--'  
'Fuck, Garrett! You and family. Everyone who cares about me knows where I am.'

'Who, Karl and Kristoff?' A challenge in that gaze.

Anders dodged. 'I'll get nothing but unwanted scrutiny.'

'I thought there was an amnesty.'

'Not for convictions from before the war.'

It slipped out, uneasily, but unstoppable. Anders would have expected questions, challenges. Would have felt Garrett had the right to it, too. _I killed people. They hurt me and I killed them. It was an accident, I swear. But I ran, and then had to kill them for coming after me again. And I felt nothing except fear. Not even a thread of regret. Do you want to hate me now?_

Steadily, 'It'll catch up with you one day, Anders. If you stay still long enough.'

'Me? Never. Give me a two day head start, and I'm gone.'

The mouth twitched to one side, not exactly a smile. 'I'd believe that.'

After eating, they both bent to clean up the scattered noodles, Garrett doing more harm than good. Towards the end of the lunch hour, Lirene came in and obtrusively made tea, casting pointed looks.

'I should go. Have to walk the dogs. Do you want me to call...Leto, or someone, to pick you up?'

A shrug, then a gleeful smile. 'He should be here in half an hour. I can walk the dogs with you, if you like?'

'With a broken arm?'

'Only need one hand to hold the leash.'

'Are you sure? Fenris probably wants to get home.'

'Traitor would likely run straight next door again. No, let's take these greyhounds for a walk. Dozer's twice the dog, these guys are featherweights next to him. I can handle it, trust me.'

They were finishing the second lap when Garrett said, 'So maybe you should come round for a meal or something.'

'What, to your place? Oh, I get it. Sick of the slums already. Do you cook?'

'Maker, no!' Almost a yelp. 'I was thinking we could go out.' 

'I could probably do with something that has a side salad. Sometimes I think I live out of boxes.' 

A fleeting grin. 'You do live out of boxes. You should have scurvy by now.'

'Funny story. I did have, once.'

They arrived to find Leto was early, leaning against the driver's side door of that sleek grey car. Arms crossed, legs shoulder-width apart, such a stereotype in the linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his jacket over his arm. Anders coughed into his palm. 'I'll duck inside and get Fenris.'

The cat didn't appreciate the handling without having first initiated contact, so Anders actioned a small war with an onion bag while while Garrett hovered outside, and Lirene watched the scene with dubious interest.

Leto took the cat with a nod, eyes catching Anders' so briefly, ducking away. Definitely lithe and sort of balletic. And short. That, Anders hadn't been expecting. Or the way Fenris went immediately limp in the fighter's hands. Expectation, Anders imagined.

'The bad thing about that,' Anders tapped Garrett's cast while Leto settled the cat in the centre console. 'You won't be going on holiday any time soon.'

'Yes and no. Delayed for a couple of weeks, but that only means I miss the party and go straight to the boardroom.' Leto opened the rear door for Garrett so smoothly, expressionless, even as Garrett sighed. 'Look, I appreciate the...insistence, but you are still not officially chauffeuring me whatever your boss says. Haven't we had this conversation already?'

Anders would have sworn that was almost a smile on the impassive face. Leto opened the passenger side door instead, a wry tilt of chin, and left Garrett to get in on his own. A spry step as Leto moved around the car to the driver's side. _Definitely bodyguard._ Creepy.

Garrett held out his cast to Anders even as Leto reached over and buckled him in, practiced. Anders almost laughed again; Garrett strove staunchly to ignore the assistance. 'Do you want to write me a message?'

'You can't spring that on me! I can't put anything in writing without at least fifteen drafts first.' 

'I'd hate to see the paperwork behind your prescriptions.'

'Fortunately I'm not a doctor.' Anders leaned over a little more, striving to catch Leto's eye with the profile consistently averted. 'Exactly how many drinks does he have to get into you before you open up and talk?'

'Seven,' without a missed beat. The voice was disconcerting, remembered from the weird late night phone call. 

Garrett shuddered. 'You mean bottles, I take it?' In a false whisper, 'His constitution, Anders, you wouldn't believe it.'

'I can and I do.' Even at this distance, the veins on the forearms were oddly pronounced. Thick and ropy, which was to be expected, but hard looking, the wrong colour even through gold skin. 'How much have you had?'

A slight twitch of chin. 'Pardon?'

'It's all about being better, when it starts. I've seen it before. Think faster, move faster, do things you never thought you could do before. The rest of the world slows down. You dodge bullets. But it doesn't stay that way. You'll lose your mind. When you're fighting a war you can't win, maybe there's some logic or honour in embracing the lifestyle, like a suicide fight. Last desperate attempts, just trying to prove a point. Cause enough damage you might make a difference. But what are you doing it for, someone else's glory? Someone else's profit?' Even Garrett was looking at him now, the slight shake of his head, while Leto turned that flat, expressionless stare on him. _Excellent idea, Anders. Let the illegal lyrium dealer's bodyguard know that you know. The man's probably a murderer._ 'Look, it's none of my business--'

'It's none of your business.' Leto's voice was as smooth and dark as the car. But his tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth, a trace nervousness. Leto looked at Garrett and away. 'Are you ready to go?' 

'Sure.' Garrett rolled his eyes at Anders through the open window, then wound up the tint with a charmingly crosseyed obnoxiousness.


	9. Chapter 9

Garrett sent emails from Orlais. The usual Fereldan cultural whine against Orlesian cuisine. Demonstrating a habit of befriending people with far too much potential to destroy him, Garrett had brought along his unofficial biographer as well as Isabela, and he occasionally emailed through snippets of an awful romance the pair of them were drafting. Anders was just glad Garrett hadn't brought Leto, then suffered a guilty pang wondering whether Fenris was now back to fighting for his life and his lyrium. 

There wasn't a moment when his thoughts didn't lead him to Garrett. Work conspired to be less than busy, and Anders ached to get home, a safe space where Garrett had never ventured. Where he wouldn't be imagining that body, those shoulders, draped against the clinic's familiar backdrop. It never worked. The buzz of Kristoff's little tv was not enough distraction. 

Anders should never had let himself be befriended in the first place. Garrett Hawke was high profile, knew too many authorities. Anders couldn't shrug away his concerns of captivity with as much insouciance as he used to. Kept him awake at night, anxiety churning.

But the anxiety was acceptable. The warmth and longing was what hurt. 

Reading Garrett's description of a hiking trip between meetings, imagining himself hiking beside him, never a comfortable rural sound intruding because they were both committed to filling silence with talk. Stroking sunwarmed dogs during his downtime, imagining Garrett's beard under his fingers, his blood speeding unexpectedly and heat rushing to his groin. How solid Garrett's body would feel.

Relief was impossible even when he allowed himself. Telling himself to think of Garrett, jerking off vigorously, praying the indulgence would end the cycle. His mind refused to conspire. There were no complicated fantasies about worshipping a perfect column of cock, or penetration, the image of his own hands spreading arsecheeks which would be pale as milky tea. Only flashes of thought, image, sensation, sliding away when he tried to grab on. Thick thighs, rough palms. The one crooked tooth. The way Garrett slurped his tea, and it shone wetly on his moustache after.

Confused and frustrated. He tried masturbating thinking about his cock sliding along the inside slopes of Isabela's breasts, or about Lirene's throat bared as she rode him slowly crooning a lullaby in his mothertongue. About Leto's wrists with the veins scarred solid as rock beneath golden skin, forcing his thighs apart and hurting him. Those were controllable, familiar and adult, and no longer worked. His orgasms were weak, his fantasies without definition, and he stayed hard after. Everything about Garrett was just too tangled. 

Getting off three times in an hour was something he did at sixteen. At his age, it was ridiculous, and mopping up made him feel guilty and sick.

The month went by too quickly. Garrett was nearly home, and the fire and frustration was at the same fever pitch. Anders stopped jerking off. Told himself to stop playing this game when indulgence clearly wasn't helping. This desire had to end. When Garrett got back, it would all go back to normal and Anders could relegate this lonely month to excess curry and boredom, until his memory of the ache was as deeply buried as the rest.

* * *

Garrett must be about to ask him what he was so nervous about. Why he was so inexplicably interested in his holiday. Anders would let Garrett speak, then fire off a question before Garrett could even take a breath, trying to keep him talking. Even half an hour ago Anders had been feeling smug in his self control, having managed to keep his hands away from himself for a while, his fantasising very firmly in line, even talking to Garrett over the phone to arrange their evening feast - fish and chips from the docks, now that Garrett was in a thinner cast and could drive his own car. Anders had felt so confident about how normal they could be together.

But he'd always been good at self deception. Garrett in reality was harder to resist than a fantasy conjured at a distance of two countries.

Anders couldn't understand how he hadn't noticed that wondrous body before. Every line of it, every action, the captivating pulse in that neck. Trailing beard hairs, the way Garrett's hair needed a cut, hanging shaggy over his eye, the unruly zig-zag of its part. The lips were thin, but so expressive, such a long, beautiful line of nose. The lines wrinkling at the corners of his eyes, the way his jeans sat just a little too tight, lifting and separating. The bulge of his crotch. Well packed. So well packed. Every inch and twitch would thrall him, inside or out. The powerful arms, muscles bunching and shifting under the thin white shirt. The spread of thick thighs against the bench where Garrett sat. 

Anders closed his eyes tightly, not trusting himself with the sight. Garrett's voice droned on. Something about religion and business never mixing. Anders carried with him a vivid image of the way Garrett's tucked shirt gaped just a little above the belt, showing a line of black hairs leading downwards. An unmistakeable invitation to his hand.

No, he was not doing this.

His cock thick and heavy between his legs. Anders scrabbled the greasy newspaper from the table, a bundle which covered the salient parts as he tried to stride to the bin. He was so hard he could practically count the teeth on his zipper. Shoving the papers into the bin, Anders twisted to push his cock against the hard edge of the bench, intended as a reprimand. 

The pressure nearly send him over. He doubled up in shock.

'Are you all right?'

'Ng. I. Yes.' Anders staggered away from the bench, turned so Garrett couldn't see. Hunched. 'Cramp. Nothing explosive. Ugh.'

Garrett was sliding off the bench, coming closer. _Maker, please, make him go away!_

'I told you to put salt on your chips,' the familiar, benign rumble. 'Be back in a minute, have to use your pisser. You sure you're ok?'

'Yes!'

'You should feel free to fart while I'm out of the room, you know.'

Anders waited, frozen, until the retreating footsteps stopped and the toilet fan was droning. Gasping, he stumbled for the back door. _I take it back, Andraste. Every wretched thing I said about your church._

Outside, the reality struck him again. There was no escape. He would come in his underwear or out. Anders opened his trousers, pushed them to his ankles to get enough room to spread his legs wide enough. Cold air made the hairs prickle, sharp enough it felt like fingers if he closed his eyes. A few desperate strokes, palming the slick head. At least there were no passenger trains at this time of night, only freight. 

Anders scuffed his spill into the asphalt, buckled up, and sank to sit on the veranda. His hand was wet. His mind blank with horror, heart thudding too loud. Garrett would surely hear.

He would lose his best friend. Not to mention Karl would never speak to him again for leaving, after putting his own reputation at risk to get Anders into Kirkwall. All those promises he'd made about growing up. Ashes and dust. At least Kristoff had found something--

No, he was not despairing, not yet. He couldn't just keep running away. Think about it properly. Roaring obsession was nothing new, he'd made it a tradition. But the way this had grown so slowly with Garrett, someone he would have called a friend. It wasn't right. This was not how it was supposed to be. His tactics were betraying him, he wasn't supposed to like the people he wanted. How could he ever leave?

Anders had no fear of Garrett's anger. Only the contempt. The scorn. A straight man. He could never let Garrett know. 

'All right?'

Anders looked up and back, smiling weakly. Garrett sank to sit by him, their knees almost touching.

'Did you flush? I didn't hear you coming.'

A scoff. 'Of course I flushed. _You_ look flushed.'

'Yeah. That cramp. I was a bit sick while you were away, a stomach bug. I think it's lingering. Just muscular, but...hurting. I overate.'

Garrett studied him. Not critically. Anders had always thought himself so excellent at the lies that mattered, compensation for being so bad at the lies that didn't.

'You look like you lost some weight. I thought you must be missing my feeds.' Garrett knocked their knees together.

'I don't know anyone else daft enough to provide such a bounty. Even Karl keeps the grocery deliveries to bare essentials. What he thinks I can do with a cauliflower is beyond me.'

'Steam it.'

'In your dreams.' Anders knocked the knee back. 'Anyway, speak for yourself; Leto's cutting edge fashion sense start to stimulate your competitive urge? These days you're all tight shirts and tighter jeans.'

Garrett rubbed his mouth. 'Ah. Oh. Well. That's Isabela. Mostly. Felt like I was in mourning forever, she helped me clear out my wardrobe and replace it with,' Garrett gestured at himself, brow furrowing. 'To make me feel better. It all fits, at least? I-- didn't think you'd noticed.'

'It's a fine shirt, Garrett.' It was. Provided he didn't try to look for the nipples peaking in the contrasting cold night air.

'Thanks.' A moderate silence. 'If you're not feeling well, I should probably go?'

 _No. Never. Stay forever._ 'Only if you want to. I'm ok, mostly.'

'I'll be around for a while, no mine visits until the cast is fully off. You still up for that dinner out one day?'

'Yes. It'll be great.' A wan smile. 

'When you're better. It's not urgent.' A warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. His dick throbbed.

He would get through this. Anders closed his eyes, tensed. He was sure of it. His perspective would come back. Desire couldn't last forever.

* * *

The tiny tv had gone to the care centre with Kristoff, and the silence was crowding Anders. Too many memories. Every one of his wet dreams when he woke. Tangled flesh and yearning. A hunger he hadn't felt for years. The apartment's walls were closing in on him, details fading out until he could see only cinderblock, grey and featureless.

_The last time I wanted something this bad--_

No, he wasn't thinking about that, either. Desire this strong couldn't be healthy.

Garrett called to let him know he was coming for lunch again, this time with Fenris, having reached friendly accord with the neighbour about ownership. Anders was nervous all morning, and at ten to one, gave in, locked himself into the decrepit toilet and pushed his jeans to his knees.

His half-erection solidified immediately, skin tight and tingling in the cool air. The anticipation throbbed.

Anders tried not to think of Garrett. Most of the skirting tiles had popped years ago, green paint peeling. Only so much you could do with a scrubbing brush in a toilet this old, stale urine assailing his nostrils. _Garrett pissed in here._ Yes, and so did Lirene. _Don't you dare start thinking about him holding his cock._ Wanking just like Anders was now, angling over the bowl, wrist hurting with repetitive motion. In desperate longing for Anders. Lean over and kiss him; Garrett would be surprised, but eager. His zip sliding open, tooth by tooth. They didn't circumcise their sons in Ferelden. Anders could hear his own panting coming back at him. _Don't moan. Oh, Maker, don't let me moan._

He heard the reception door open, Garrett's greeting to Lirene. Panic flushed from his knees to his forehead, prickling sweat. Garrett would walk through looking for him. Always had, even from the first day. No boundaries at all. Would barge in here-- listen to those boots scuffing on the concrete, getting closer--

Anders brought his free hand to his mouth just in time. He wiped the seat dry, still shaking, and opened the door just as Garrett walked past, Fenris riding his shoulder. 

'He's had atrocious gas. I think he ate a radish. Or maybe he's got what you had the other night. Even Dozer doesn't do what this cat does.'

Fenris lifted his tail on cue, then miaowed unhappily.

'Hello to you, too,' Anders said, coolly. 'I need to wash my hands, be with you in two. You know where it is.'

'No problem.'

Anders washed his face, too, slicking back his hair. Standing close to Garrett in the exam room, he could smell the man. Clean starched shirt, a thread of sweat underneath. And talc? Not cologne. Oldschool. The desperate wank had at least saved Anders from another episode like the week before. Prodding the cat's unhappily distended belly, he felt gritty and ashamed, troubled by the images now invading his dreams. The excitement just at having Garrett this close was continuous, unabated. Anders could feel the heat starting again, his lower belly tight. He hadn't even known an arse could feel a need before, but he wanted Garrett buried in his, ached for it.

He was not working well, jerky and distracted, Fenris cringing away from him without the lyrium delusion as cause. Anders scrunched his eyes closed. _Be professional. Think about the job. If you miss something, these animals might die._

'I can't feel any significant mass or obstruction. What's he eaten these last twenty four hours? Any likelihood he got into your rubbish?'

After the exam, they moved to the veranda instead of the kitchen, namely to let Fenris vent as he prowled the asphalt unhappily. Garrett retrieved their sandwiches and cola from the tiny fridge. Considering the evident gastrointestinal distress, they strayed to the topic of worst things eaten.

Anders cut Garrett off before he could start. 'Orlesian doesn't count.' 

A moue of mock irritation. 'Fine. Then,' contemplative. 'My father's one and only attempt at tomato soup.'

'How could anyone ruin tomato soup?'

'This from someone who can't steam cauliflower. I don't know what he did. It was like a pot of red acid. Bethany ate it out of loyalty and was sick for two days. Looked like she was throwing up raw blood.' 

'Ugh. Because cooked blood is so much better' Anders thought, and tried not to think, but his mind kept foregrounding the memory. _Raw blood. Why dig this up, and why now?_ 'Raw cat.'

Garrett's eyebrows climbed. 'I warned you not to try that pie place down the road.'

'No, this happened--' His swallows were sticking. 'Had a stint in solitary, which happened to be when the splinter faction took over Calenhad and Kinloch Hold with it. They forgot about me. Us. Down there in the cells. And there was this cat. This cat. Battered old thing. He would slip in and keep me company. After about two weeks of no one coming down there, listening to the guy in the cell next to me go insane with thirst - there was a leaking pipe in my cell, one of the explosions jarred it lose, and then the cat. In and out, in and. Never brought me any mice, fat bastard. I was so--It's why I took this job. Dogs, not cats. I'm so sorry, I don't know why I just told you that. I hadn't even told Karl that.'

Anders clenched his fists, knuckles white, his chest hurting sharply. The longing pinched, desire and something else he couldn't name. He didn't know what he wanted from Garrett. Maybe that's why the sexual hunger was so wrong. So overwhelming. Because he didn't know what he really wanted.

'I'm glad you didn't starve to death.' 

Anders looked up in relief, caught Garrett's mouth twitching.

'That is the second worst war story I've ever heard.'

'The worst?'

'Something to do with this family, fleeing from Lothering--' The old toothy grin, no true smile. 'Varric tells me I should stop trying to add dragons every second paragraph.'

'Ah, what would he know. Realistic economic drivers for mass exodus make for boring plotlines.'

'He's also far too fond of ambiguous endings.'

Through joint effort, they managed to steer the conversation back into safe territory, Anders' unease filtering away. Fenris settled himself against Garrett's thigh and bared his growling belly, looking at it miserably. 

'I gave you Karl's number, right? If that doesn't settle in a day, you should really get him scanned.'

Garrett tapped his pocket. 'In my phone already. Oh - I've worked out where we can go. A new restaurant just a couple of streets away from mine. I can loan you a suit if you don't have one'"'

The panic came back immediately. 'I don't really want to go to a place where I have to dress up. I'd feel awkward.'

'Ok, it was just a thought. You're right, those jeans suit you. I don't think I've seen you out of the coat and trousers before.' Something in the expression on Anders' face made Garrett pause. 'You do still want to go out, don't you? I was thinking this Friday.'

'I'm--busy.' Despair. Not a white lie, this time. But Anders had already told Garrett too many truths, and betrayed him so many times over. Every wet dream. Every tug of his cock. What was it worth, a sin to spare Garrett the awkwardness? 'Kristoff's move to the care centre's been delayed, I have to stay with him.'

Surprise, but not suspicion. 'That's a pain. I thought he was all ready to go. You showed me that letter you helped him draft to his wife.'

'It was a surprise for us, too. A month, they think. Maybe longer. Sorry to throw out your schedule.' And if he hadn't worked out how to control himself in a month, then he'd know he didn't deserve Garrett in his life.


	10. Chapter 10

It was no better the next week. Two weeks. Four weeks. Anders dodged Garrett's calls, begged Lirene to cover for him, and didn't open his emails. Not that Garrett was overly persistent. Two emails, three calls, one unannounced visit.

Anders was not anticipating the ambush from Karl. 

'You want to tell me what's going on? I must have missed your last seventeen emails.'

At least he brought coffee. Anders sipped the offering warily. 'I paid the rent.'

'You know what I mean. I've an Antivan import sitting on my shelf for a month that could get me in trouble if the guard knew. Has that chap you like in it, with the eyebrows.' A steady sigh, mocking, as Karl's infinite patience never wore thin. 'Anders, I'd been looking forward to you having more free time with Kristoff in a better place. Not less.'

'You make it sound like he's died.'

'Nothing of the sort.'

'Likewise, it's nothing, Karl. Really. One of Merrill's friends found a shipment of smuggled warhounds at the docks, we've been busy.'

'I heard about that. But at night?'

'I'm just settling into the space. Not used to being alone.'

Karl nodded thoughtfully. There was more grey in his beard than Anders remembered. 

'I've-- been thinking of leaving Kirkwall.'

The coffee cups between them steamed uninterrupted. Karl had a way of making silence speak for him.

'It's been over three years. I'm getting itchy.'

'You want to see a doctor about that.'

'I can give you as much time as you need to find a replacement. I don't want to leave you hanging.'

'Are you going to tell your clients, or do you want me to? Seeing as I've been taking your calls.'

'What do you--' The realisation bloomed. 'Garrett's been calling you? I never should have given him your number.'

A warm smile. 'When Hawke calls, Kirkwall answers. He was wondering if you were in trouble here. I understand there was some interesting business about him and his cat.'

'No! Nothing like that. I just feel like I need to leave.'

'If you're serious.'

'I am.' The reality was solidifying the more he thought about it. _It would solve everything. It always does, one way or another._

'Can you do me a big favour?' Karl looked suddenly grave. Karl also never asked for anything.

'Of course.'

'Arrange with Merrill to cover for you for two weeks. I can spare an assistant for half the day to handle anything Merrill can't. In,' contemplative, as Karl examined his internal calendar, 'say a fortnight, if she's amenable. You need a break. You look like you're coming apart at the seams.'

'I do not!'

'When's the last time you shaved?' The smile was fond. 'I know the change with Kristoff must be hard for you as well. Take the time to make your decision. If you have some breathing room, you might not want to leave.'

'This isn't something that's going to change, Karl. I'm not going to change. I don't want to let you down, you've done so much for me, but I just can't.'

'A month, Anders. Work two weeks. Sleep for two weeks. Then we'll talk again.'

'I have to warn you, I'll be spending that two weeks packing.'

A chuckle. 'You could pack up your place in two hours. Do you want to tell me what's got you so scared?'

'I am not scared.' 

Karl kept smiling slightly, waiting. He drank some more coffee.

But maybe Karl would know. The extra years might have imparted some wisdom beyond a seemingly unshakeable exterior.

'Have you ever.' How to put it. _Suffered raging irrational torrents of lust?_ Anders stopped the laugh before it started, afraid he would choke. 'I have it bad for someone inappropriate. Say a client.'

'Hmm. Greyhound or warhound?'

'When I find out who gave you the impression you were remotely amusing, I'll...do something inappropriate to them.'

'A client.' Karl spun the paper cup, contemplative. 'I've had glimmers, maybe. Of course, the most inappropriate person I've ever been involved with was you. It's not often fourteen year old boys repeatedly break and enter just to splay themselves naked over my bed. It was the hardest two years of my life. A crash course in self control.'

'I'd forgotten I was so provocative. Sorry.' 

'I won't ever forgive you the canings for fraternisation,' a wicked glint in the grey eyes. 'I prefer to keep you in my everlasting debt. Still, a client is not really inappropriate in this job. Perhaps if you were a psychologist...' Karl paused to contemplate the horror, affecting a shudder. 'There's no especial conflict. Coming together over a shared love of greyhounds? Unless they're fourteen - no, someone married!' Anders shook his head to all of it. 'Someone whose said they're not interested? Oh, Anders.' Fraternal disapproval.

'That's ... not really why it's inappropriate.'

Karl looked curious, the humour dropping away.

His sex drive was still raging intolerably, but in Garrett's absence the direction was aimless, dangerous. Anders was frightened. 

'It's not about them! I feel like I'm losing control! I get angry at the wrong things. At the wrong people. That's a problem down here. I would never do something inappropriate about the--the lust. But it's like it takes every inch of my self control not to, which leaves no strength for anything else.'

Karl pushed aside their coffees and took Anders' hands. In their mothertongue, 'This is your body, my friend. You control what happens within it. What you feel and experience. No one takes this away from you, but for you.'

How could that ever help, when he'd been passed from authority to authority all of whom had owned his body, Kirkwall's strange calms and chaos the closest to freedom he'd ever been? Anders tried not to shout. 'I am not in control. A snappy pseudopsych mantra can't change how I'm made.'

Mild exasperation. 'So you must cut it off.'

Lost in translation. Anders hoped. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Do not think about this person who you cannot have.'

'I have tried.' 

A deep sigh. Dropping the old tongue, 'I can just imagine you, sitting in a corner, fingers in your ears, thinking so very, very hard about not thinking about this person. You need to distract yourself. You remember in those classes in school, about idleness doing a demon's work--'

'I try to avoid remembering anything to do with the old catechism.'

'Take the break, Anders. Shave. Find an allotment and plant a row of tomatoes. Go out to dinner. Play diamondback, make new friends.'

All things which were easy for Karl to say. Anders vaguely remembered their schooling, the circle surrounding Karl, always feeling himself on the fringe. The smartarse with no depth. They laughed at his jokes and laughed at him and laughed at him taking the brunt of their tutors' hatred, and laughed at anyone who expressed attraction to him. No one slept with class clowns. Each warm, secret smile Karl gave him meant so much, sparkling reality in a life which felt like someone else's dream, especially when things had gone bad and Karl never cut him off, whatever scorn the circle heaped on him for that loyalty.

'Fine, I'll take the break! But only because I owe you.'

'Obligation can sometimes be a good thing.' Karl let go of his hands and they were back to drinking their coffees. 'I'll pick you up tonight. We can watch Antivan eyebrows without subtitles.'

'How could I refuse.'

Anders called Merrill as soon as Karl was gone, wondering why he was bothering. Why Karl was bothering with him. This was not getting better, for all talking with Karl made him feel less alone. Less trapped. But also annoyed. There was always someone willing to made his fears seem small and absurd.

* * *

Monday was a trial. The dogs irritated him, needy things who just couldn't tell him what was wrong. Then he snapped on Tuesday, shouting down two pit owners for the desperately mangled dogs they brought in, euthanising the poor destroyed animals with their myriad old scars and chunks of missing flesh, irrespective of the bastard owners' instructions. The argument went on for an hour, escalating to death threats, until he forcibly evicted them. The guard came late, of course, the interrogation coming so soon after the fight to leave him limp and shaking, his stomach painfully empty and between his legs painfully, stupidly full. _Yes, Anders, exactly the right time to get aroused._ Taking a side he swore he'd never take. As if animals would ever appreciate his horrified sympathies. Lirene gave him a heavily sugared coffee after the cops left, and locked and barred the clinic's doors efficiently, giving him proud looks and waving off his apologies. 'It had to happen sooner or later. You're not the quiet type. I'll snap off the heads of a few more broomsticks and tape a machete to the underside of the exam tables and your desk, just in case they spring us. Army taught you how to use a blade as well as a gun, right?'

Anders was appalled. He had to get out of here before he hurt anyone again. 

All because he'd opened up. Open like a gutted fish, letting Garrett poke around inside until Anders' hadn't realised how deep he'd got his fingers. Two weeks, and hopefully Karl could smooth it over as Anders' inability to control himself. 

He made no plans for the two weeks off. Maybe lying around wanking himself raw, until the thought of sex made him sick. Except he was full of so much energy and aimless anger his skin itched at the mere thought of lassitude. Anders woke early in his restlessness and slept late, so decided to use the time to start training again. His body longed for the rigid structure he'd been trying to deny. Four minute showers, long jogs, weapons training, mess hall, stock infirmary, life lived to bells and barked orders. He'd hated it at the time, but maybe he needed it. 

Anders thought he could face the upcoming two weeks if he pretended Surana was still there, her last standing orders, his unthinking obedience necessary for his survival. It hadn't been bad, WSR. Compared to jail. He sneered at himself. Hadn't been bad until he'd ruined it, just like everything else.

Kristoff was fine, but visiting him made Anders feel a very physical fear at the sight of the veterans dozing in the sunshine. Any one of them could have been Garrett, taken to pieces. Could have been Anders himself. Anders knew his fear was a privileged and shameful kind of skin-crawling, born from the hyper energy currently flowing through his body. He wondered if it depressed the damaged soldiers to see him bouncing in to spend an evening with Kristoff. If he made them as uncomfortable as he felt around them. _Stupid._ They had more important things to thing about than him. Even Kristoff had more important things to think about than Anders, with Aura's letters coming thick and fast. She was fighting a battle against Ferelden's fragmented bureaucracy to get the funds to come to Kirkwall, which was slow but progressing. Kristoff had almost smiled. Thanked Anders earnestly, the withered hand gripping Anders' own, desperate and shaking, and Anders felt guilty again at having kept Kristoff from this peace for so long.

As the two week break approached, Merrill called again to make sure of the dates for her cover. 'Are you really thinking about leaving? Is there something more important somewhere? I thought you had no family.' 

'Why does it always have to be family? No, it's not anything important. I just...can't do anything in Kirkwall. It's too big, the city. The problems too hard. Dealing with this sort of mutilation and death day after day, it gets to you. I can't build anything here. The work is just day after day, the same thing, never achieving anything better.' _Criminal without a cause._ Anders felt his mouth twist.

'Well, I'm sure the dogs appreciate you being there. And Fenris, probably. The street children certainly do, it breaks their little hearts every time they find another puppy with shattered tail.'

'It's not enough. I need more.' Sadness, at the thought he would never find it.

'Hn. If you do leave, I'll be sorry to see you go. Do let me know when you go, please? I hate it when my friends disappear.'

Karl called again, too, checking if his intentions had changed. Understanding. Resigned, but not offended.

'You know the best thing about you?' 

'My good looks and sex appeal.'

'Representative of the selfish interests of the individual. I'd forgotten. No, Anders. Your honesty.'

Karl didn't often go in for the obscure. Anders bluffed. 'All very well and good when I can afford it.'

The detachment of military thinking helped his nights get easier, too. The desire shifting, changing. Lazier, calmer, after burning off as much energy as he could working, running, sprinting the city's endless stairs. He and Garrett lying in bed together, talking, throbbing erections untouched and just a part of the scene. Garrett splayed naked on the exam table in two, legs spread, while Anders gave him a massage and nothing more. Playing cards naked, drinking casually, sharing long, slow kisses. Anders woke hard and yearning, but it felt less like bonfire and more like the sun, a warm heat caressing, the absence of guilt or shame.

Anders wanted to return to their friendship. He wanted so desperately to see Garrett again. To explain to him why he had to leave, why he'd disappeared for so long. But he knew it was too soon, having made that mistake before. Easier for everyone if he just did what he had to do and left.


	11. Chapter 11

It was his last Thursday. He'd opened the back door in the absence of a dustpan, sweeping out three years of neglect. Rising from his crouch by the fridge, Anders turned. 

Garrett was just standing there.

Anders didn't drop the broom. He heard Garrett swallow. Hard. 'The front door was locked. I thought I would check out back.'

'Lirene must be out at lunch.'

'I brought you...' The crack of a can, hiss of cola. Garrett pushed the offering across the bench and made to seat himself in the usual spot, between sink and full length cabinet. A plastic bag held up. 'Sandwiches.'

'I can't.'

'Just wanted to talk to you, Anders. Make sure you're okay. I've been missing our evenings.'

'I have, too.'

If only Garrett had looked angry, annoyed. Instead he looked lost. 'Why have you been avoiding me?'

He couldn't do this. 'Because I told you the truth.'

'Not all of it,' Garrett countered, almost smiling.

'Because I want you.'

The can was sweating. Garrett pressed his knuckles against the bench, considered the tiny carrier bag looped over his fingers, and he was suddenly too huge for the room, awkward and huge, and dressed so well. Or maybe the room was too small for him, for them. Anders fought against the urge to relieve Garrett of his embarrassment. 

_He deserves it. After what he made me feel, he deserves it._ Except Garrett didn't deserve any of it. Anders had quite happily built his own fantasies without Garrett's participation.

'I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I like your company, a lot. Look, I'd never jump you or anything, I can behave myself, but it got too difficult for me. I can't really afford it now. Can you just go?' Tiredly. Laden with ennui. He used to be good at this before he started to care. Maybe that was Kristoff's fault. First time he'd let loyalty mean something more than the moment. 

The knuckles cracked, and the fist thumped the bench. Cola frothed and overflowed. Anders looked at Garrett's hands. He knew how to take a punch. 

'Tell me more,' Garret said roughly.

Anders' throat hurt. 'It hasn't been all this time. Honest. Just recently, since you were hurt. I was so worried, and realised that I just... I'm sorry. I'm out of control. I've never felt like this before. It's nothing you did, it's just me.' 

'I don't see what the problem is.'

Anders wanted to glare. Too scared to raise his eyes. 'Because I want you.'

Almost a sneer, if limp around the edges. 'Is that all?'

It would break his heart when Garrett laughed at him. Because Garrett mattered for some reason Anders couldn't fathom. Because Garrett cared about him, listened to him, even though they disagreed. Garrett was more than Karl's genial patience and constant advice, more than Kristoff's dependency, more than turgid relief shot into the palm of a hand.

'Because I--' Anders felt his own eyes flash, angry. So Garrett wanted to hear more, did he? 'Because I lust after your fucking _eyebrows_. Because I could draw the curve of them in my sleep. Because I've spent the last month of nights fantasising about my dick splitting your arse. Because you're becoming more important to me than my freedom--'

'I don't want you to go.'

Quiet. Calm, now. Garrett was wearing his corporate face, blank, unreadable as newspaper photographs. He stepped closer.

Anders felt strangely let down.

'Is it really just the sex bothering you, that you thought it would bother me?'

So steady. Anders hunted for the truth. The eyes resisted him.

'It's been years since I've wanted anyone,' Anders said, unsteadily. A bubble of anxiety rising from his belly, waiting to burst in his chest. A thread drawn tight behind his eyes, waiting to snap. 'I don't know why I'm feeling like this.'

Garrett took his hand. The pain increasing. 'I haven't been with that many men. I thought I was being obvious. Chivalrous, even.'

'Pardon?'

'It can't all be sucking a fellow off after a sidelong nod and wink at the latrines, right? Especially when it kept going years after adolescence, even, when I might've been young enough and daft enough to make the excuse that, oh, it was army, the only women were prostitutes, and how much better it was with a willing lad to lend,' Garrett lifted his hand, palm upwards, Anders unable to resist. Warm hands. Warm lips pressed against his palm, just slightly chapped. The beard. 'A hand.' Garrett kissed his knuckles next. A gust of frustrated breath. 'It's been a while for me, too. For anyone. Not since mum died, I just lost the urge. Maker, I _asked_ you, Anders! I asked you _out_. Repeatedly. We flirted. And you said yes, then you cut me off, and now you tell me you do want me, but...Tell me what I did wrong?'

An angry plea. Garrett's shoulders slumped. He still held Anders' hand.

And what Garrett said was not surprising. Anders knew he had always known, somewhere he'd been stubbornly ignoring. Building walls of false guilt as yet another fantasy to keep himself at a safe distance. Chantry dogma never left him alone. Sin, fault, guilt. Always his. Anders' chest felt like it was ripping apart from the inside, his pulse drumming against the inside of his skull as if against a cracked glass just waiting for the last nudge to fall apart. Giddy, but not relieved. He felt worse.

They studied each other in silence.

'You're right. It's not the sex.' Barely a rasp.

Garrett's mouth opened slightly in response, but he said nothing. Tense.

'I would hurt you. It's who I am. Someone else who would leave you. Because I always leave. I can't do that to you.'

The honesty didn't hurt any less. Garrett let go of his hand and rubbed his own mouth.

'I'm sorry.'

'Well, that's that, then.' Garrett turned away. 'See you. Oh, wait. I won't.'

'--I really am sorry about our evenings. I wish I wasn't who I am. You're my best friend right now, I'm so sorry.'

'It's not your fault.'

'Yes it is.'

That beautiful freckled paw stopped on the doorframe, sliding. 'Can't we just continue, if you're not comfortable? Being friends?'

'Not--not right now.' Maker, why was this so hard? 'I'm leaving.'

Garrett startled. 'Do you have to? If I'd promise to not be hurt, whatever you did?' 

Anders felt his heart knot.

'I don't want your promises. I can't give you any in return. Can you really imagine a life with me being anything close to normal? I'm a time bomb, Garrett. A ruin. If anyone knew I was alive, I'd be hunted. Extradited to Ferelden and jailed, if they didn't just put me up for the penalty here. And that's just what I am, without who I am coming into it.'

Garrett's shoulders straightened.

'That letter you wrote to Kristoff's wife. The one you let me read, the first one. How many drafts did it take?'

A heartfelt apology to a woman for not being able to be who she wanted, who she'd fallen in love with, an honest exposition of personal fears and hopes for finding a place of mutual comfort. Playing a role not his own. It had been the easiest letter he'd ever written, and Anders could barely remember what it contained before he'd let Kristoff sign his name. 'Less than fifteen.'

Garrett turned from the door, his hand sliding off the frame. Voice low, sultry. 'Everything you said in that letter, Anders. I can live with that as long as you can. It's no real reason to run.' He stepped closer, a shift of hip, tilt of head. 

It was painfully obvious Garrett was trying to look sexy. 

It shouldn't be working, as obvious as it was. Anders' mouth was bone dry. His cock, already thick just from seeing Garrett, wanted to fill.

'Garrett, no.'

'We would be so good together. The sex would be great, I can tell just looking at you. Your hands. Your fingers. The shape of your jaw.'

In all his fantasies, Anders hadn't even thought about Garrett's voice. A gross omission with hindsight. Horror. Lust. A swamping wave of loneliness. His cock was possessed, it was the only logical answer.

'Don't do this to me, Garrett. Don't play with me. I can't resist.'

'I'm not playing. I'm trying to stop you taking away what we both want just because you want to play the martyr. You're right, I don't want us to be friends either. I don't want to be a Karl for you, your favourite hot water bottle, well treated when needed and shelved when not. I want it to be dangerous, Anders. I want us to have sex. I want to feel like I'm risking everything just to have another day with you, because risk is worth it, a reward just as great as the fear - and it will be so worth it, can't you tell? I wish I'd just made it clear earlier so we could have got on with it. What should I have done? Ripped my clothes off and asked for an examination?'

Anders felt like he was watching Garrett's heart break in reverse.

He closed his eyes. He felt the warmth from Garrett's hands before they even touched him, sliding along his arms, cupping his shoulders.

Anders bowed his head into the kiss and tried not to respond. A gentle kiss, with too much beard.

Whispered against his jaw. 'Let me show you, Anders. I want to touch you. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I want to get you naked. I bet you like being sucked off more than anything.'

Moaning, he rushed forward into those arms. Apparently you couldn't read a man by what he said, but you could read him by his tongue. _Desperate._ Anders kept moaning helplessly into the mouth. Cold as cola, still tasted a little like toothpaste. He licked at Garrett's teeth, and Garrett breathed into him, opened his mouth wider, sealed their lips together and led with his tongue. Anders had never been so fond of kissing, the intimacy of another person's mouth made disgusting by his fledgling medical training, not really made for this sort of thing, the indents and grooves and taste of their last meal; something about Garrett's mouth was unbelievably arousing. The welcome and permission, when Garrett ceded to Anders' tongue in return.

His chest was light. Agony gone. Anders cupped the bearded cheeks.

'It's softer than--' _Don't say Karl's beard, idiot._ 'Than I thought.'

Garrett put Anders' hand over his crotch. Kissed him again, and Anders felt Garrett's penis throb, long and hard.

'Maker. So go-oood--' 

'What was that about soft.' Garrett sounded dangerous.

Oh, but this kiss was soft, Garrett shaking to deliver it so gently. Anders let his fingers curl around the covered erection. Garrett gasped and pushed against him.

Anders had only known him in the confines of this clinic, asides from a string of unbelievable stories. Even reading the articles about Garrett Hawke, the Amell bastard, were like reading someone else's fantasy. As if Garrett didn't really exist outside of Anders' own mind. The sexualised fantasies had made that disconnect worse, Garrett no more than an object of lust. Feeling Garrett's own desire burning against his palm shocked Anders like a cold plunge. Garrett's independent existence had never really been a factor. 

What would Garrett like? What would he want? Anders wanted to ask him everything. _Would you watch foreign movies with me?_

Belt buckle. Button fly. Red underwear in the Orlesian style. Anders went breathless at the sight, the cock barely veiled. Even the veins were clear through the hugging cloth. Felt a giggle threatening.

'What? I couldn't think of anything else I wanted to bring back for you--'

Anders groaned and hugged him. _Idiot. Why am I such a--_ And what a broad back for him to discover, shoulders made for his hands to slide over them. The muscle he'd never quite believed was there, enough of a layer of smooth skin over the top it felt like honest strength instead of vanity. The shock of Garrett's chest against his own, a heartbeat he could feel thundering.

Garrett's shirt was open, jeans to his knees, the black undervest halfway up the high ribcage. They tangled together and hit the bench, finding leverage to rut. It took the cola spilling merrily to the floor for Anders to remember where they were.

'Shouldn't do this here.'

Strained. 'I'm too scared to let you go.'

Nothing he could say to that, the eyes appealing.

Then Garrett was opening Anders' fly with brisk fingers, baring him and _watching_ with such a grave expression on his face Anders felt like he was posed on an altar instead of a kitchenette bench of peeling pea green paint.

Garrett went to his knees.

Anders wanted to say no. Who was he kidding, no he didn't. Garrett took the band of his boxers between fingers and thumbs, stretching out and over his erection, down. Anders couldn't look away. He'd hear if Lirene came back. The locks and bars on the front door took at least thirty seconds to lever open, another ten seconds before she would come to the kitchen to made her lunchtime tea. He'd have plenty of time to--

To what? _We're doing this. Here._ To yell at her to go away? 

Reality shocked Anders again when Garrett rubbed his cheek against his thigh. The first lick pulled all the muscles across his stomach tight, his hands closing around Garrett's nape. _I'm touching him. I'm actually touching him. Don't pull his hair, you're not fifteen._

Tentative swipes. Already he was leaking so much precome Anders felt sorry for Garrett, taking that in without even a warmup. Then Garrett made a desperate, needy sound deep in his throat and opened wide.

He couldn't. He couldn't help it. His hand went to Garrett's hair.

'Ye-ss.'

A warm rumble. Garrett braced one hand against the bench by Anders' hip. The other closed large and tight around the base of his dick. Held tight as the mouth worked.

'Like that. Oh, Garrett. The _best_.'

The eyes rolled up, amused.

'Arrogant--'

He was going to come. Hearing at a distance the front door rattle. Forgetting what it meant, forgetting everything. His hand curled tight in Garrett's hair, tugging. Garrett let go of his dick and moved his hand between thighs, no fingering, just pressure. Anders felt shocked at hearing the sound of Lirene's keys hit the reception desk, a rustle of carrier bags and sensible shoes squeaking on vinyl.

'Garrett--'

He covered his own mouth just in time.

Drained in the aftermath, light headed. Anders let his head loll back lazily as Garrett licked him clean, tucked him back and zipped up. By the time Anders could pull together enough strength to look forward again, Garrett was clad, too, standing, the heel of his palm pressed against his own erection.

'Might have known you'd be a noisy fuck.'

Maybe Lirene thought it was one of the dogs. Anders did not even care. 'That was so good.' Slurred, even to himself. 

Garrett wiped his mouth. 'You'll be over tonight, then.' An unashamedly smug grin.

Oh, now that wouldn't do. Anders mustered as much regret as he could, shook his head sadly, just to see the smugness fade, wariness in its place.

'Not even a locked door would keep me away.'

Relief. Garrett flicked Anders' nose sharply before leaning in and kissing him. 

Semen and cola, like summers on nearly forgotten beaches. It hadn't been all bad, growing up. Excursions and sneaking away, quick trysts in the changing stalls. Anders licked into the mouth hungrily, and this time Garrett's hand curled against the small of his back, slid along his arse, pressing in over the cleft just enough to make Anders clench, imagining what tonight would be like. 

Garrett rolled his hips, letting Anders feel the hard heat behind the denim. 'That's for you. Call it a bribe.'

His mouth watered. Barely a proper look at Garrett's dick, but he could be patient. Couldn't he? He could be so patient. 

Lirene came in just as Garrett was stepping away. She looked at the cola puddled on the floor, at the cans and sandwiches on the table, at them.

'I thought you were cleaning up in here.'

'It was an accident.'

'A pleasure to see you again, Garrett,' a stiff little nod. Lirene would cut her own throat before gushing.

'Lirene,' Garrett said, grinning. He turned to Anders. 'At least you like dogs. Dozer's going to be all over you.'

'Garrett. It's a job, not a vocation.' 

Lirene retreated eventually with her cutlery, a cup of tea and a last suspicious look. Then they were grinning at each other, their first mutual secret. Anders felt very young, wanting of all things to start a scuffle. He pushed Garrett's shoulder. 'You can get the spill. Seeing as it's your fault.'

Garrett jostled him back. 'Oh, can I. I have servants for this sort of thing.'

'Kinky.'

'Not really. More...disconcerting.'

They finished cleaning the kitchen in tandem, washed their hands at the sink together, hips touching, then sat to eat. 

'What's your address? I'd hate to give Lirene inclinations towards tabloid fodder by asking her for it.'

Garrett told him. 'So you really will come over.'

It was suddenly hard to swallow. Then to speak. 'I'm sorry. About all of it. I'm not the most constant person. Like I said, I don't know what I can promise'"'

'So don't.' An easy shrug. 'You say the longest you've ever stayed somewhere is four years? You've been here just over three. We could put a bet on how long we last. With your luck, I'm sure to win.'

'What colour's your carpet?'

A puzzled look. 'Red.'

'Fire engine red?'

'More a burgundy. Except in front of the fireplace, it's got some gold through the red there.'

In his mind's eye, Garrett stretched naked on a rich backdrop, smooth muscles shifting as he spread his legs, the burgundy a perfect contrast to milky skin. And a fireplace, adding warmth to the skin. Maybe a coy look or two, eyes black with lust.

'Uh. If I come over, I'm likely never to leave.' 

Anders couldn't remember if he'd ever seen Garrett look this happy before.


End file.
